The short video was just part of his day’s work, the cherry on top of a two thousand–word feature he’d written for Josefa. Since the word had come down to push the Taiwan independence angle, Jack had been working up the piece, which would be on the front page of the Standard.
Jack was disturbed by the silence as they walked to the door. Though activity on the flight deck had slowly increased, the ship wasn’t fully fighting fit, with bilge pumps working to clear away the water the carrier had taken on. The sight of the escorts on the horizon made him feel any better. The fleet was still well protected.
As Jack reached out to the door handle, klaxons started to wail and red LED lights flashed up and down the deck. “Bandits inbound! All hands to station.”
Celeste cursed as she dropped the camera and grabbed his arm. “What the fuck now? Can’t they just leave us alone?”
“We need to move!” Jack wrapped his arm around her and hurried her away from the door. “We need to get to the chopper.”
In his mind, Jack rehearsed the scenario that one of the carrier’s junior officers had taken them through the previous day. McCulloch hadn’t wanted to risk the two of them being aboard the carrier in the event of another attack, so Jack had been briefed about exactly what to do if the fireworks started again. He’d been told in no uncertain terms that flashing lights and alarms meant it was time to go.
They sprinted to the helipad as quickly as they could, careful to stay out of the path of the aircraft that were beginning to ramp up their engines. If the Chinese were inbound, McCulloch would want everything in the air, including the MH-60R Seahawk that would ferry the few non-essentials aboard the ship to safety.
“Just stick together and we’ll be okay.” Jack looked at Celeste, who nodded. “The group is designed to swat away any attack.”
When they reached the squat gray Seahawk, it already had its rotors firing. The helicopter was surrounded with seamen loading the few passengers it was assigned to carry. As Jack and Celeste drew closer, the junior officer who’d briefed him on the process the day earlier waved him in. Jack pointed Celeste to the door of the helicopter and ran over to the lieutenant.
The lieutenant had to raise his voice to be heard. “We’ve got a whole load of Chinese bombers inbound, under heavy escort. We’re sending you to the USS Shiloh. It’s smaller than the carrier, so less likely to get painted by an anti-ship missile. It’s also got more fireworks than a Chinese New Year to keep you safe. You’ll be fine over there, sir.”
“Thanks! Stay safe.” He had to shout.
The other man smiled. “Been about seventy years since one of these tubs was sunk.”
Jack nodded and ran for the helicopter. He reached the door and was pulled aboard by a crew member, who slid the door shut. Jack took a seat next to Celeste and looked over at her, but she didn’t move and continued to stare straight ahead. He placed a hand on her knee and gave it a slight squeeze.
The crew member who’d helped Jack aboard walked over to them with a practiced ease, his hand held out. “Here, take these.”
Jack took the two sets of large headphones. “What’re they for?”
“Knowledge. You guys are reporters, right? So report. If shit goes bad here, the world is going to need to know. Just don’t tell anyone I gave those to you.”
Jack nodded as the wheels lifted off the deck. He placed the headset over his ears as the crew member returned to his seat. He held out the other headset for Celeste. She took it, but left them on her lap for the time being. The helicopter banked, and his ears were assaulted with radio reports from what could only be the fleet combat information center, its various ships and aircraft squadrons.
After a few minutes, he started to understand the gist of what was happening. It frightened him. He eased back into his seat and listened as the reports rolled in.
“One hundred and ninety-seven bandits at extreme range, and more every second.”
“Squadrons, check in.”
“Royal Maces, en route and on point.”
“Diamondbacks, ready to engage.”
“Eagles launching.”
“Dambusters, awaiting takeoff.”
Jack did the arithmetic in his head and felt trapped. No matter how mighty the carrier and its battle group, if they could only get a squadron or two in place before the Chinese started firing their missiles, he knew that bad things were going to follow. He looked out the window of the Seahawk and saw nothing but blue ocean. There was nowhere to run.
“All assets, this is Admiral McCulloch. You’re about to get a little taste of how General Custer felt at Little Big Horn. Let’s swat as many of these bastards as we can. Good luck.”
Jack wondered how anyone could stay so calm in such a situation, with the safety of thousands resting on his shoulders. But the admiral’s southern twang was somehow reassuring. In the minutes that followed, the radio chatter was mostly concerned with ships and aircraft getting into position for what was to come. As the number of Chinese aircraft inbound continued to rise, it was clear that the US forces were outgunned.
Jack turned to Celeste. “It’s beginning.” She looked over at him and nodded, placing her headset on as the helicopter banked again.
“Mr President.” Jack recognized the call sign for the Washington. “This is Mace Prime, we’ve got what you could call a target-rich environment, over. Permission to engage?”
McCulloch’s voice boomed in his headset. “Denied. Do not fire until fired upon or until they enter our threat box. Our rules of engagement are ironclad.”
Jack wasn’t sure about holding fire until you had a couple of hundred missiles coming your way, but nor was he a three-star admiral. He also understood McCulloch’s reluctance to start World War Three unless absolutely necessary. Historians would be discussing McCulloch’s actions for decades to come.
The minutes ticked away. Then McCulloch cut into the radio feed. “Right, they’re in the threat box, put them down.”
Jack heard acceptance of the order from both flight leaders and the fleet gunnery officers. Soon after, the radio was awash with confirmation of missiles being fired by both sides. Reports of aircraft running empty of missiles started to roll in, and other voices reported the fleet escorts were filling the air with defensive missiles. Still the Chinese missiles kept coming.
McCulloch spoke a second later. “All assets shift focus to the missiles. Disengage from the Chinese birds and protect the group.”
Celeste grabbed Jack’s hand as he closed his eyes and listened to the radio. He hadn’t felt this helpless since Afghanistan, when he’d been in a convoy that had been attacked by insurgents. Surrounded, he’d had to wait in a Humvee while the Marines he was embedded with drove off the threat.
He opened his eyes and saw the deck of the cruiser USS Shiloh come into sight out of the window of the Seahawk. It seemed serene, stationary in the water as its two vertical missile launchers fired for the final time, then radioed that they were as dry at the rest of the fleet.
“Fire all close in defense!” McCulloch shouted over the radio, in a tone that made events sound pretty bleak. “Everything you’ve got, people.”
There was a muffled boom in the distance. Nobody on the helicopter said a word, but many screamed or gritted their teeth. There was a second boom, closer, as the helicopter started to descend onto the deck of the Shiloh. Others followed. It was impossible to tell whether it was Chinese missiles being shot down, or US ships being hit.
“Attention all assets, this is Admiral McCulloch. The Washington has been hit twice and breached. We’re abandoning ship. USS Shiloh has the command.”
Jack began to wonder if he was living the last few moments of his life. He was reassured as the deck of the Shiloh came into view, a hundred feet below.
He turned to Celeste and smiled. “We’ll be okay.”
She smiled back.
The window outside the Seahawk lit up as the Shiloh exploded, and a huge ball of flame climbed into the air toward
the Seahawk. Jack was driven back into his seat as the pilot banked and climbed again. He smelled smoke. He turned his head to find the Seahawk was aflame, a massive hole in the rear of the aircraft.
The helicopter lost altitude in seconds. Jack could do nothing but squeeze Celeste’s knee as the Seahawk ploughed into the South China Sea.
Ernest’s private office in the penthouse of the New York Standard building was unique. From this office, decisions had been made that had changed the world. He’d helped governments to rise and to fall, influenced public opinion, and moderated the trends and fashions of whole generations. While Ernest’s tastes in furniture and decor were modest, the office had been redecorated several times, most recently at the behest of Sandra. She’d protested that since he spent eighteen hours a day here, or so it seemed, it should have some nice things in it. After he’d agreed, it had taken mere days for the room to transform, from new chairs and paintings, to small touches like the books on display. At first, he was glad his wife had persisted, since the office felt more welcoming. Now he hated it. It was a stark reminder of what he’d lost in order to save the company.
He shook his head and returned to the present. He chewed on a bagel and savored the cream cheese, listening while Peter gave a rundown of the day’s news. It was a key part of his day, their morning ritual, and one that required Peter to be up earlier than Ernest—no small feat.
“Plenty about the Senate inquiry. Looks like the consensus is that Mahoney was the inquisitor and without him it will blow over.”
Ernest pursed his lips. He hadn’t told Peter about his deal with Dominique and saw no reason to now. “I’m certainly glad that’s gone away, but I’m annoyed that we never managed to find the dirt on him. We’ll need to do better next time.”
Peter laughed. “Don’t be so dark. It will be fine. The senator has been dealt with and the committee will go away.”
Ernest wasn’t so sure. He resented having to be a patsy to that woman and her organization. Already she’d started to call to make small demands. They’d been subtle: massages of the truth here or an omitted fact there; mostly harmless. But Ernest knew that with each passing day she’d try to extract more from their relationship.
On the other hand, he had to admit that Dominique had proven ruthlessly effective in the prosecution of their agreement. Within days, Mahoney had been disgraced, the Senate inquiry was a memory and the political mire that had dragged down his company for months was starting to relent.
“What sort of coverage is the divorce announcement getting? Am I the worst husband and father on the planet?”
“Close enough. Let me show you.” Peter put a separate folder on the desk and opened it. It was piled high with articles.
“Fan mail?”
Peter nodded. “Basically all along the lines of: what’s he thinking; how could he be so cruel; she has a mental illness; it must be some slut breaking them up; is anyone surprised, given it’s wife number four; so on, so forth.”
“Could be worse, then?”
“Probably not. Are you sure your divorce is absolutely necessary?”
Ernest closed his eyes. It probably wasn’t. He could have weathered the storm, faced the Senate head on and likely seen a dismantling of his lifetime’s work. But he had made a decision and followed through. After Sandra’s initial pleading, she hadn’t said a word to him. All of their contact since had been through lawyers and the paperwork was nearly complete. The pre-nuptial agreement would leave her a rich woman.
While the loss cut him deeply, he kept his feelings and his reasons to himself. “It was necessary and there’s no point revisiting it. Leave it at that.”
Peter looked a bit confused, but nodded his acceptance. There was a knock on the door and it was flung open before Ernest had a chance to summon whoever was on the other side. One of his junior assistants looked flustered as he rushed across the room and placed a piece of paper in Peter’s hand. The man nodded at them and left the room without a word.
Peter read the document and went white. “Shit, looks like China has gone and made the rest of the day’s news irrelevant.”
“What do you mean?”
“That stranded carrier, they’ve sunk it.”
“When?”
“A few hours ago. We’ve got people aboard.”
Ernest’s head spun with the political and economic ramifications of the news, even before Peter had stopped talking. He was not prepared for his phone to ring, and even less prepared for who it was. He stared at the caller ID and willed the phone to stop ringing. He gestured for Peter to leave, and waited until he was alone before he finally answered.
“Took you long enough.” Michelle Dominique spoke before he’d had a chance to say hello. “The point of giving me your direct line was not making me wait.”
“Sorry, but I’ve just seen the news—with the world about to go to hell and all, what do a few extra seconds matter?”
“Whatever. I want it spun. Pro-Taiwanese independence. Moral outrage that our good boys and girls would get blown up like this. China evil. Taiwan good.”
Ernest sighed. Since their agreement, he’d ordered his editors to start slanting things in that direction. The New York Standard had a strong front-page feature about it, and other EMCorp papers and television affiliates had run it to death. He’d done all he could, within reason, short of an outright declaration of support for a preemptive US strike.
He resisted the urge to fight her on this. “So you want us to further stoke the flames of war. Are you sure that’s the best move at this point?”
“I don’t want your advice, Ernest. I want results.” There was a pause. “I also want criticism of the Kurzon administration’s handling of the crisis. You need to stoke public dissatisfaction and pave the way for my people to be elected in November.”
He heard a click and the phone went dead. He sighed and closed his eyes. He knew he’d better get used to it—getting calls from her like his editors were used to getting from him—but he still didn’t like it. For someone who’d run his own operation with an iron fist for decades, it was a culture shock he’d continued to struggle with.
For now, he had work to do. Ernest kept the phone in his hand and dialed the number of one of his best friends in the world. When the secretary of the President of the United States answered, he explained that he needed to speak with the President urgently and was put right through.
“How's the wife, Ernest?” President Phillip Kurzon offered in greeting.
‘Which one?”
It was their standard opening banter, but when friends got as old as the two of them, routine jokes could still bring a degree of comfort and amusement, even with a war breaking out. They’d been college roommates. Philip Kurzon had gone on to marry his sweetheart and lived happily with her since. Ernest had quite a different story.
“Ernest, that’s a nasty business with Sandra. Are you sure it can’t be salvaged?”
“I'm sure. The divorce will be finalized soon. As for the others, I haven't heard from Elle or Edith and Catherine is as unpredictable as ever. That’s all of them. How's yours?”
“The usual. Incredible woman, my wife. I think she has a harder job than I do. Grandson made quarterback, you know?”
“Pass on my congratulations.” Ernest paused. “Anyway, I do have some business to discuss with you, and I'm sure you're busy.”
‘Thanks, I know why you're calling. What’ve you got?”
“Not very much, just wanted to let you know we're running hard for Taiwan on this one. I know that puts you in a bind, but I really don't have a choice.”
While Ernest, a Republican supporter, and Kurzon, a Democratic president, disagreed on politics, it had never affected their friendship. No president reached the Oval Office without a patron in the media, and Ernest had thrown all of the support he could behind his first campaign. In return, he’d gained a powerful friend.
“I’m not surprised, but the last thing I need is more fuel on thi
s particular fire.”
“They sunk a carrier, Phil.”
“And besides nuke them, what exactly would you have me do? The Joint Chiefs tell me I’ve got few conventional options with the Washington gone. I've got a meeting with Frank Maas in an hour, that'll tell me if the Agency has any ideas.”
Ernest massaged his temples with his fingers. “Is the military situation that bad?”
“Normally, no. But they sank one carrier, the next nearest are in the Gulf and somewhere near San Francisco, and anything I send from the East Coast will take far too long to get there. We’re going to war, but it’s with one hand tied behind our back.”
“Recognition for Taiwan?” Ernest pushed his luck.
The phone was silent for a few long moments. “It’s really a formality after they hit the carrier. State is already working it through. The Euros aren’t getting involved for now, but the Japanese, Koreans and Australians are howling. This is all off the record.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, Ern, thanks for letting me know. Nice to know you’ll be calling on me to beat the drums of war as hard as I can. I've got work to do. Call my office next week and we'll organize a round next time you're in DC, it's been too long since we caught up.”
“You got it. Thanks, Phil. Bye.”
Ernest sighed. While the President knew war was now inevitable, he clearly hoped to keep the engagement limited. Yet Dominique was using EMCorp and its public influence to corner the President of the United States with public opinion.
Ernest, and his company, had become a strategic asset.
Jack felt very alone as he looked around the deck of the Chinese rescue boat, which he shared with a dozen or so armed soldiers and a large number of survivors. The sailors who’d been saved from drowning stared into the darkness or at the deck, and didn’t engage each other in conversation or protest their captivity.
Their captors, on the other hand, barked orders through translators and weren’t averse to using the butt of a rifle to make their point. They shared around bottled water and some meager food rations happily enough, but any dissent—real or imagined—was quickly dealt with.
[Jack Emery 01.0] The Foundation Page 11
