Tipping Point

by David Poyer

  3

  The Pentagon

  NILES had come back a day early, and his secretary had called Dan to come in for a brief interview. He’d gotten his blues dry-cleaned, polished his shoes, made sure his ribbons were new and in the right order, every shoelace and button squared away. Blair was still in bed as he left.

  * * *

  THE secretary looked up expectantly in the lobby of the vice CNO’s office. He blinked past her through an open door at the green hills of Arlington. “Daniel Lenson, reporting in to—”

  “Get in here, Lenson.”

  His old patron, turned enemy, then reluctant rabbi again, stood at the window, broad back to Dan. Never a lightweight, Niles had gained even more poundage since they’d last met. Rongstad, his staff director, was at a long, polished, glass-topped table devoid of even the faintest specks of dust, a folded newspaper by his elbow.

  The windows had all been replaced after 9/11, with blast-resistant, shatterproof, slightly green-tinted glass two inches thick. The sky tumbled with dark, driving clouds, but it was empty of incoming airliners. An I Love Me wall held photos of a hulking young Niles with Victor Krulak, with Elmo Zumwalt, with Sam Nunn, with a bent, aged, irascible-looking Arleigh Burke. A photo of Niles on the bridge of USS California, gripping binoculars. Another with a youth group, all the kids looking up at Niles, in dress blues, as to some massive and inscrutable deity.

  Their relationship went back many years. Then rear admiral Niles had cherry-picked him as a project officer at Joint Cruise Missiles, troubleshooting the crash-plagued “flying torpedo” that had become Tomahawk. Dan had submitted his resignation there, despite Niles’s avuncular advice he was throwing away his career. After his fiancée’s murder, Dan had changed his mind about resigning. But by then, Niles had washed his hands of him, pegging him as mercurial, cavalier, not a team player. For years Dan had wandered in the Navy’s outer darkness. Only lately had the admiral seemed to change his mind, when they’d stumbled out of the ruins of the burning E ring together.

  “I pay my debts,” he’d muttered then. Maybe, in his mind, he had, arranging Dan’s promotion to captain, then his command of Savo Island.

  Who knew where that left them, or what the second most powerful officer in the Navy wanted now.

  “Lenson,” Niles rumbled, clearing his throat. He turned from contemplating the view. Nodded to Rongstad, who without a word opened the Post so Dan could see the second page. The headline read: NAVY IN QUANDARY OVER ANTIMISSILE STRATEGY, POSED BY ACTIONS OF ROGUE OFFICER.

  “Read it?”

  “Yes sir. On the Metro. But you note, it doesn’t quote me.”

  “You’re not this ‘highly placed source’?”

  “No sir. They called, but I haven’t said a word. On or off the record.” He stood waiting, hands locked behind him, until Rongstad nodded at a chair. Niles lowered himself, and he faced the flag officers across the expanse of polished glass over dark mahogany.

  “Actually, that’s not why you’re here,” Rongstad said.

  Niles rumbled, “Remember Zhang Zurong? You were involved with him. Back when Bucky Evans and that Tallinger bastard were passing our secrets to him.”

  “Yessir. I recall that.” He’d met the smooth-faced, pudgy Zhang in a Chinatown restaurant, at what had seemed at the time like a family party. But “Uncle Xinhu” had turned out to be a senior colonel in the Second Department, China’s equivalent of Defense Intelligence. Dan had turned over elevator wiring diagrams disguised as top-secret terrain guidance schematics. The NCIS and FBI had nabbed the go-between, but by the time they showed up on Zhang’s doorstep, he’d decamped, fled Washington for his homeland.

  Where, by all accounts, he had prospered mightily.

  Niles grunted. “General, lieutenant general, army chief of staff, then the political sidestep. Just like Putin and Bush—from chief of intelligence to president. Or at least, to chairman of the central military commission. Which, right now, is pretty much the same thing.”

  “He’s always been a hawk,” Rongstad put in, drawing idle diagrams on the dustless glass. “When we saw his name show up on the State Council, we knew it meant trouble.”

  Niles got up but motioned them to stay seated. He crossed to a flat-panel display on the side wall and picked up a remote. The screen glowed a stylized logo. Niles machine-gunned through PowerPoint slides, and stopped at one of a chubby face. Zhang, in a gray-green Soviet-style uniform. Niles let that burn on the screen for a moment, then went to the next image. The western Pacific.

  “This is what I spend my day worrying about, Lenson. We have a strategic concept, handed down from administration to administration. Containment, until they integrate into the world trading system. But what if they don’t want to integrate into a system that we, the West, designed? At some point, we’ll lose our grip.”

  Niles’s fat finger swept a scythe from Japan to Vietnam. “Think of growing national power like the shock wave in a detonating bomb. As it increases, it presses against any restraint. What Acheson called our defensive perimeter in the Pacific runs from Japan through Korea, Taiwan, and the Philippines. West of that, we have an understanding with the Vietnamese.”

  Dan raised his eyebrows. “With Hanoi?”

  “It’s secret, so far. Fuel and basing at Cam Ranh, if the balloon goes up, and intel support. Drone and recon flights out of Kep.

  “The Chinese have never been happy with the situation, especially being kept out of Taiwan. Up to now, they’ve probed, tested, but mostly accepted it. Now Zhang’s lighting the fuze.” Niles clicked to the next screen. Arrows pushed outward from the coast of Asia. They ended in dotted lines that, as Dan hitched his chair closer, enclosed massive areas of the southern seas. “You operated here. Correct? Ten years ago, in USS Gaddis.”

  Rongstad said, “Zhang calls his program ‘restoration.’ Harmless, right? But to the leadership he’s appointed, that means hegemony over the South China Sea, Taiwan, Vietnam, and South Korea, based on the cruises of Admiral Zheng He during the Ming Dynasty.”

  Dan tried to look impressed. But none of this was news. There would always be threats. That was the nature of the human beast. Power expanded, until it met the increasing density of some competing power. And along that unstable, trembling fault line, all too often, war. Peace was like health: a temporary condition, maintained only by continued vigilance and lots of exercises.

  Rongstad went on. “Since the Party’s embraced capitalism, but not democracy, it’s basing its claim to rule on nationalistic fervor. We’ve tried to keep the military-to-military relationship going. The SecDef and chairman went to Beijing in January, and invited Zhang to visit the U.S. We even promised him the spy charges were history. So far, no answer.”

  “Do we see war coming?” Dan asked.

  Niles tilted a massive head, and prowled the office like an overweight panther. Outside, past the reinforced glass, clouds rolled, darker and more threatening. It would rain soon. “War? Probably not. Significantly increased pressure? Definitely. So far Japan, Korea, Taiwan, the Philippines, are sticking with us. We’re coming to an understanding with India. The Vietnamese have always hated the Chinese. Which we should have figured out long ago … But Zhang’s busy too. He’s secured basing rights in Myanmar and Pakistan. What worries us more, though, is rice and wheat.”

  Before Dan had time to frown, the controller clicked. The next screen showed climbing graphs in green, red, blue. “Rice, wheat, and oil stockpiles. Notice how last summer they hockey-sticked up. So far this year, they’ve bought over ten million tons of corn and twelve million tons of wheat, and we’re still uncovering massive rice purchases. They say it’s to ensure stable supplies, but…”

  Dan nodded, feeling a chill. This wasn’t usual. “What are they buying it with?”

  “U.S. long-term debt. At a sizable discount. So the Treasury’s happy.”

  “Unloading debt, which we can nationalize, and taking grain and oil in return,” Rongstad murmured. “Also coppe
r, aluminum, manganese, and tin. And they’ve cut back or restricted access to their own strategic exports—steel, rare earths, tungsten. We had DIA do a historical study. Almost every war we have data for was preceded by a stockpile buildup by the aggressor.”

  The next slide zoomed in to Southeast Asia. Niles spoke to the screen. “Fortunately for us, their balls are hanging down where it’s easy to whack them. The energy corridors, from the Gulf, across the Indian Ocean, and into the South China Sea.” Dan noted islands or bases hopscotched through the narrow seas: the Spratly Islands, the Paracels, Kra, the Cocos, Myanmar, Bangladesh.

  “Mahan,” he said.

  “Not coaling stations, but the same idea. The big difference is that their allies are developing states, going along for the money. Or because they’re already on our shit list for being dictatorships. While our allies have major regional navies of their own, especially India and Japan.”

  “And Korea,” Dan put in.

  “Right, you have this soft spot for them.”

  He nodded. “Good seamen. Good fighters.”

  “So are the Japanese. The Indians, well, that’s yet to be seen. The couple times their army’s gone up against the Chinese, it hasn’t been impressive.” Niles stepped back and turned the screen off. “But the balance of forces can look different depending on where you stand. If you ask me, is war imminent? I’d say no. If you ask me, is it possible? I’d say … maybe.”

  A second premonitory shiver gripped Dan’s spine. “Is there some way I can help, Admiral?”

  “I have to make some tough decisions. First. You ran the SATYRE exercises, right? Antisubmarine joint exercises?” Dan nodded. “And served with the Koreans. So you know their capabilities as well as anybody. Set any personal feelings aside, and give me an objective call?”

  “Yessir. I’ll try.”

  Rongstad skated a single sheet of paper across the glass. Dan took it in: a list. “If we provided them with a supplemental arms package—additional antisub aircraft, the new sonobuoys, upgraded torpedoes—could they hold the Korea Strait against Chinese submarines?”

  Dan sat back in the chair, taking a second to process force levels, effectiveness, the geography of the strait. “Sir, in terms of antisubmarine skill sets, they rank near the top. Right now, they could seriously attrite any attempt to force the passage. But they’re limited on platforms, and they’ve got two coasts to cover. Plus Pusan, if we have to reinforce or supply them.”

  “And?” Niles said.

  “I’d say, if the Chinese try to ram through, there’d be a lot of floating debris. From both sides. Anything you can do to beef up the Koreans, they’ll put to good use.” He looked down the list again. “ASW aircraft and updated sonobuoys, that’d be where to put short-term money. The rest of this—it’d take years to get them air-independent propulsion. That’s a nice-to-have somebody added up the line.”

  “About what Jack told you he’d say,” Rongstad murmured.

  Dan was about to ask if he meant Jack Byrne when Niles nodded. “Okay, makes sense. By the way, the Taiwanese have requested a supplemental for air defense. They’re seeing the same trends. Specifically, a buildup of ballistic missiles and attack aircraft across the strait. That shifts air power in the PRC’s favor.

  “Second question. How effective are the Ticonderogas as antimissile platforms? Can I count on them to screen a carrier task group?”

  This was a loaded question. How he answered might determine what happened to him from here on out. And for a moment he was tempted to obfuscate. He shook it off. “Sir, I have to say, in their current state of development, the upgraded Aegis and the new missile are marginal for the intended mission. We managed two hits out of four firings, but we got lucky.”

  Both Rongstad and Niles looked unhappy, and more so as he gave statistics. Finally Niles held up a broad hand. “I’ve heard enough. Malon, anything to add?”

  “No sir, he’s given you the view from the trenches. The Block 4’s at the shaky limit of what you can do with that airframe.”

  “So we need to speed up the replacement program. Specifically, the two-color seeker head. I’ve got a captain in charge out there at Raytheon, but he’s not cutting it. Dan, we didn’t see eye to eye at Joint Cruise Missiles, but you nailed that problem with the cable cutter that didn’t cut. The one that kept shredding the rudder, till the missile went down. Maybe we need a new broom.” He exchanged glances with the director, who nodded slightly. Niles turned to Dan. “Want to go to Tucson? Take over the SM-3, get it back on the rails?”

  Dan swallowed. “Well, I’m … I’d have to think about that, whether I could do a better job.”

  Niles looked away. Murmured, “There might be a star in it for you. If you came through in time to be of use.”

  Dan gave it a couple seconds, as much to savor the offer, and regret it, as to give the impression he was considering it. Because Niles didn’t tease. If he said there was a promotion in it, there would be. “I wouldn’t do it for that reason, sir. But I’m not sure it would be the best use of my talents.”

  Niles scowled. “That’s a weasel answer, Lenson. I didn’t have you pegged for a fucking weasel.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Lay it on the table.”

  “I’ve got a crew, and a wardroom, I just managed to glue back together, mostly, after they took a serious morale hit.” He gave it a beat, then added, “I’m still, on paper, CO of USS Savo Island. I’d rather stay there, Admiral.”

  Niles looked away for a second. Then nodded, once. “You took one for the Navy, after the assassination thing. So I’m inclined to let you have what you ask for. As long as you understand what you’re passing up.”

  He waited, but Dan didn’t see the necessity for saying anything more. Though he was wondering if he’d just shot himself in the foot in a truly historic way.

  At last Niles clicked back to the CNO logo. The next slides were Joint Staff marked, not Navy. They were classified top secret SPECAT, and bore the code names Satchel Advantage/Iron Noose.

  “Okay, we’ve gamed this to death up at Newport. If the worst comes to the worst, we expect any breakthrough attempt to take place via Taiwan. That’s where they have the best claim, and holding the center of the chain gives them access to the whole Pacific.”

  “The Army’s not gonna be in this fight,” Rongstad said. “Us and the Air Force, along with the Taiwanese and possibly Japanese sea and air forces, will try to hold them off the island. At the same time, we extend the war horizontally by a complete energy and raw-materials blockade. Another possible step will be conventional strikes on the seaports and missile launching points along the coast opposite Taiwan. We hope to limit the conflict, keep it a naval-slash-air war.”

  “We couldn’t win a land war with China in 1953. We sure can’t win one now,” Niles murmured.

  Dan wondered how thoroughly they’d gamed the Red Team portion of the exercise, and whether they expected a nation with a nuclear deterrent to take strikes on its homeland lying down. “But what if—I mean, suppose the Chinese decide to, um, extend the war horizontally too? Maybe by letting the North Koreans off the leash?”

  Neither senior officer answered. “Then we’ll be looking at a protracted war,” Rongstad said at last.

  They all contemplated that for a few quiet seconds as the thunderclouds rolled outside, and lightning flashed, far off, over the alabaster needle of the Washington Monument. Then Niles wished him well on the murder board; and Rongstad swept his papers back into his briefcase; and Dan realized he’d been dismissed.

  4

  Capitol Hill

  WEDNESDAY morning it was still raining. His head was stuffy, and as usual before any kind of trial or hearing, he hadn’t gotten much sleep. He and Blair seemed to be getting along better, though. Dinner at a Thai restaurant in Georgetown the night before had helped. They’d talked about fallbacks. Hers, if her run for Congress didn’t pan out. His, if the hearing went badly. They’d agreed to sell the house
in town and move to Maryland. She’d go back to work until something opened up in the next administration, then try to get a position for him, too. Meanwhile, they could build up the exchequer a little.

  But right now his head felt like it was going to explode. His neck and upper spine hurt from the old injuries. He dry-bolted three Aleves. Shaved. Got his uniform together. Checked the clock again. Still early.

  Suddenly he remembered: if it was seven here, it was noon back in the east Med. He’d meant to call for the last two days, but kept missing the window.

  Sitting on the commode in the bathroom, he hit the number. Rather to his surprise, Cheryl Staurulakis answered on the second ring. “Hey, Exec,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if calling a mistress. “It’s me.”

  “Captain. That you? Where are you? Sound pretty faint.”

  “Long as you can hear me. I’m in DC. Where are you guys?”

  “Lucky you caught me, I’m out on the bridge wing. We just got under way.”

  He could hear the wind blowing, the whine of the turbines. Under way, without him … He cleared his throat. “All the repairs done?”

  “Repairs and rearm complete, Tiger Team offloaded, and everybody got one night’s Cinderella liberty. And get this, everybody’s back aboard.”

  “Even the Troll? And Rit Carpenter?”

  “Even Carpenter. Yes sir.” She chuckled, about the first time he’d ever heard her laugh aloud. “I had him escorted. Buddy system.”

  “Probably wise. Um, how’s everything going with the interim guy?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say “CO” or “skipper.”

  “Captain Racker? He’s great. A real charmer. Seems to have a lot of pull with the logisticians. We got every part we needed, and Hermelinda ordered a truckload. Building up depth, in case we get caught short again.”

  Dan grimaced. He’d wanted to hear they were all right, but not that his replacement was hot stuff. “Uh-huh. So, where we headed now?”