by Jeff Edwards
After a few seconds spent cross-referencing their respective readouts, Sergeant Thaxton swung the microphone boom of her comm-set to a position near her mouth and keyed the circuit. “Watch Officer, this is Operator Fourteen. GEO-3 has detected an unscheduled launch from the Jiuquan Satellite Launch Center in the southern Gobi Desert. Rapid assessment of the trajectory looks like a low orbit insertion.”
The Watch Officer, Major Saunders, acknowledged the report. He was standing at Thaxton’s elbow almost before she had released the mike button. “What’s your analysis, Sergeant?”
“Too early in the launch to know for sure, sir, but it’s definitely not a weapons trajectory. If I had to take a wild stab at it, I’d say the Chinese are fielding a low orbit surveillance satellite.”
She touched the display screen, and followed an arcing green line with her fingertip. When she reached the end of the arc, she continued moving her finger, extending the curve with her best mental projection of the arc’s final shape. “Could be they’re getting ready to hang an eye in the sky over their little trouble spot in the Bay of Bengal.”
The Watch Officer nodded. “I think you’re right,” he said. “I’m going to forward your assessment up the chain, along with the tracking data.”
“Wait a second, sir,” Thaxton said. “That’s just a guess on my part. It could be completely out to lunch.”
“Understood,” the Watch Officer said. “But it’s a good guess. And personally, I think you’re dead on the money.”
CHAPTER 31
USS MIDWAY (CVN-82)
BAY OF BENGAL
SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER
2025 hours (8:25 PM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
Admiral Richard Zimmerman sat in his raised command chair, facing the five large-screen tactical displays that covered the forward bulkhead of Flag Plot. Each of the six-foot–square screens was peppered with arcane tactical symbols representing the aircraft, submarines, and ships within the carrier’s area of responsibility.
The symbols were color-coded: blue for friendly, and white for neutral or unknown. A third available color-code (red for hostile) was not currently in use, as the USS Midway strike group was only in the area to serve as a stabilizing force. Theoretically, the U.S. Navy was a disinterested party, which meant that there were no hostile units in the area. At least not as far as the good old USN was concerned.
The admiral’s eyes locked onto the blue half-circle symbol that represented the submarine, USS California. Those guys had nearly gotten their asses shot off by the “neutral” Indian ASW assets screening the INS Vikrant, only an hour or so earlier. This little act of theoretical non-aggression had occurred after a Chinese attack submarine—also “neutral”—had blown the Vikrant’s doors off.
Now the Vikrant was burning and trying not to sink, somewhere up at the northern end of the bay, while the Indians were pounding the hell out of anything that moved up near that end of the pond. Only God knew how the skipper of the California had managed to get his boat out of that mess in one piece.
“Neutral my ass,” the admiral said. “If it gets any more ‘neutral’ around here, we’ll all be going home in body bags.”
Not that he could blame the Indian Navy. They hadn’t been trying to shoot at the California. They’d been going after the Chinese attack sub that had punched holes in their carrier, and they’d gotten a bit too quick on the trigger.
Admiral Zimmerman gripped the arm of his chair. If somebody blasted a couple of flaming craters in his aircraft carrier, he might just do what the Indians were doing… Hammer the living shit out of everything within reach.
His eyes swept the dimly lit compartment. Flag Plot was packed with electronic displays and support equipment. The outer bulkheads were festooned with radio comm panels, digital status boards, radar repeaters, and computer workstations—all dedicated to supplying the admiral and his staff with the information needed to command an aircraft carrier and its strike group.
As always when the carrier was deployed, Flag Plot was alive with activity, but quiet. The system operators and radio talkers spoke in hushed voices, through hands-free comm headsets. The collective murmur of their conversations was not much louder than the cooling fans that served the electronic equipment.
“If you have a moment, sir…”
The voice came from the left side of the admiral’s chair, about six inches from his elbow. It was that new Flag Lieutenant, the creepy one: Muller, or Moyer… something like that. The one who always seemed to appear out of thin air.
The admiral had watched the man enter and leave rooms, so he knew it wasn’t magic or teleportation. You could keep an eye on his movements, if you tried. But if you weren’t watching for him, the man had a way of showing up out of nowhere, always with that damned clipboard in his hand.
The lieutenant held out the clipboard. “If you have a moment, sir,” he said again.
Admiral Zimmerman accepted the clipboard, resisting the urge to snatch it out of the young officer’s hands. The cover sheet was white with a red border and red text, signaling that the document beneath was classified at the Secret level.
The admiral flipped up the cover sheet to reveal a hardcopy of a radio message. He began to read.
//SSSSSSSSSS//
//SECRET//
//FLASH//FLASH//FLASH//
//301332Z NOV//
FM COMPACFLT//
TO COMCARSTRKGRU FIVE//
USS MIDWAY//
USS TOWERS//
USS FRANK W FENNO//
USS DONALD GERRARD//
INFO COMSEVENTHFLT//
CTF SEVEN ZERO//
SUBJ/SATELLITE LAUNCH WARNING//
REF/A/RMG/SPACEOPCEN AF/301241Z NOV//
NARR/REF A IS LAUNCH WARNING AND INITIAL TACTICAL SUMMARY FROM U.S. AIR FORCE 21ST SPACE OPERATIONS CENTER, DETAILING SUSPECTED PEOPLE’S LIBERATION ARMY (PLA) SATELLITE LAUNCH ON THIS DATE//
1. (SECR) REF A ANNOUNCED THE UNSCHEDULED LAUNCH OF A LOW ORBIT SPACE VEHICLE FROM THE PLA’S JIUQUAN SATELLITE LAUNCH CENTER IN THE SOUTHERN GOBI DESERT APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR AGO.
2. (CONF) TRAJECTORY AND ORBITAL PROFILE ARE NOT CONSISTENT WITH MANNED SPACE LAUNCH OR ANY KNOWN WEAPON OR WEAPONS PLATFORM.
3. (SECR) INITIAL AIR FORCE EVALUATION IS HAIYANG HY-2F OR HY-3 SERIES SATELLITE, DEDICATED TO OPTICAL, RADAR, AND MULTISPECTRAL SURVEILLANCE OF BAY OF BENGAL OPERATING AREA.
4. (SECR) SATELLITE TRANSIT SPEED HAS BEEN INTENTIONALLY REDUCED IN ORDER TO APPROXIMATE GEOSTATIONARY POSITIONING FROM LOW EARTH ORBIT. 21ST SPACE OPERATIONS CENTER ADVISES THAT ORBITAL PROFILE IS NOT STABLE, AND WILL DECAY WITHIN TEN DAYS.
5. (SECR) FOR PLANNING AND COMMUNICATIONS PURPOSES, THIS SATELLITE HAS BEEN DESIGNATED AS REDBIRD ONE.
6. (SECR) DUE TO PREVIOUS OPERATIONAL PATTERNS AND NATIONAL INTERESTS, THE EXISTING INVENTORY OF DEPLOYED PLA SATELLITES PROVIDES COVERAGE OF THE BAY OF BENGAL OPERATING AREA ONLY APPROXIMATELY SIX HOURS OUT OF EVERY TWENTY-FOUR. DURING ITS PROJECTED LIFECYCLE, REDBIRD ONE WILL PROVIDE THE PLA WITH FULL-TIME SURVEILLANCE OF THE OPERATING AREA.
7. (SECR) ALL UNITS ARE ADVISED THAT THE FULL CAPABILITIES OF THE HY-2F AND HY-3 SERIES SATELLITES ARE UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME. REDBIRD ONE MAY PROVIDE HIGH-RESOLUTION IDENTIFICATION AND TRACKING OF ALL SURFACE AND AIR ASSETS IN THE AREA. RECOMMEND THAT YOU ASSUME THAT THE PLA HAS FULL VISIBILITY OF YOUR OPERATIONS UNTIL ORBITAL DECAY AND SUBSEQUENT FAILURE OF REDBIRD ONE HAS BEEN CONFIRMED, APPROXIMATELY TEN DAYS FROM THIS DATE.
8. (UNCL) GOOD LUCK AND STAY SHARP! ADMIRAL STANFORD SENDS.
//301332Z NOV//
//FLASH//FLASH//FLASH//
//RBT 2034539//
//SECRET//
//SSSSSSSSSS//
The admiral read through the message twice before he scribbled his initials at the top and handed the clipboard back to Lieutenant Creepy. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said.
The lieutenant tucked the clipboard under one arm. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Nothing,” th
e admiral growled. He waved for the strange little man to go away.
When the admiral looked around a few seconds later, the Flag Lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. The admiral hadn’t heard the watertight door open or close, but the lieutenant was no longer in Flag Plot. How in the hell did he do that?
The admiral’s eyes went back to the tactical display screens. Redbird One would be spying on every move the strike group made, every aircraft sortie, and every course and speed change made by the escorts, or by the Midway herself. But there was nothing in Pac Fleet’s message which designated the satellite as hostile, which meant that Zimmerman had no authorization to take the damned thing out.
This new Chinese surveillance tool was officially neutral. There was that word again…
The admiral leaned back in his chair. Neutral. He was starting to hate that fucking word.
CHAPTER 32
CNN CENTER
190 MARIETTA STREET
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
SUNDAY; 01 DECEMBER
9:22 AM EST
Despite Irene Schick’s prediction, the video of the killings in Lhasa did not run as the lead story. She was still convinced that the massacre was going to dominate the news cycle for several days, but the news director, Lloyd Neilson didn’t agree.
Neilson was damned good at his job, and he and Irene rarely butted heads. But he didn’t agree with Irene’s evaluation of the story’s importance or potential. China and India were escalating toward what could become the first all-out war between nuclear powers. Against a backdrop of that scale, Neilson judged that the shooting of some demonstrators in Tibet would get lost in the shuffle.
He had overruled Irene on both the placement and timing of the piece. Irene had wanted to break the story as a headliner on Saturday evening, with full trumpets, and delivery by one of the big league anchors. Instead, the Tibet piece had been shoved into an also-ran spot on Sunday morning, twenty-two minutes after the lead stories had aired at the top of the hour.
For a lot of news pieces, that would have been the death knell. But not this story. As Irene had told Nielson repeatedly, the Tibet thing was not going to disappear quietly.
She had no inkling of how right her prediction would turn out to be.
CHAPTER 33
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
BAY OF BENGAL
SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER
2147 hours (9:47 PM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
There was a light rap on Commander Silva’s door, and then a polite pause before it opened. Captain Bowie stood in the entryway. “Good evening, Kat. Mind if I come in?”
Silva looked up from the stack of paperwork on the tiny fold-down desk of her temporary stateroom. She was still plowing through a mountain of minor administrative details, in preparation for the change of command on Friday.
She had been planning to hit the hay in a few minutes, so she was dressed in her customary shipboard sleeping attire: sweatpants and tee-shirt. Tonight’s sweats were standard gray workout pants, and the tee was dark blue with a gold silkscreen image of the surface warfare officer emblem across the shoulders. At home, she preferred to sleep in socks and underwear, but aboard ship she might be called out of bed at any moment of the night. Informal as they were, her tee-shirt and sweats allowed her to respond to drills and emergencies fully clothed.
She leaned back in her chair. “Evening, Jim. Come on in.”
Bowie stepped into the stateroom, closing the door behind himself. He held out a routing folder. “I wasn’t sure if you’d seen the latest message traffic. I thought you might want to look it over before you hit the rack.”
Silva gestured toward the papers on her desk. “The one about the Chinese surveillance satellite? I’ve seen it. I’ve got a copy right here.”
Captain Bowie shook his head and held out the folder. “Not that one. A new message, from the Bureau of Personnel.”
Silva accepted the routing folder, flipped it open, and read the one-page message inside.
//UUUUUUUUUU//
//UNCLASSIFIED//
//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//
//301355Z NOV//
FM BUPERS//
TO USS TOWERS//
INFO COMCARSTRKGRU FIVE
COMDESRON ONE FIVE//
SUBJ/USS TOWERS CHANGE OF COMMAND//
1. (UNCL) BUPERS NOTES THAT USS TOWERS IS CURRENTLY DEPLOYED TO THE BAY OF BENGAL PURSUANT TO OPERATIONAL ORDERS NOT DISCUSSED IN THIS TRAFFIC.
2. (UNCL) IN VIEW OF UNANTICIPATED DEPLOYMENT, SUBJ CHANGE OF COMMAND IS HEREBY POSTPONED UNTIL COMPLETION OF CURRENT OPERATIONS.
3. (UNCL) CAPTAIN SAMUEL HARLAND BOWIE IS DIRECTED TO REMAIN ABOARD USS TOWERS AS COMMANDING OFFICER FOR THE DURATION OF CURRENT OPERATIONS, OR UNTIL USS TOWERS IS ROTATED OUT OF THE OPERATING AREA.
4. (UNCL) COMMANDER DESTROYER SQUADRON ONE FIVE IS HEREBY NOTIFIED THAT CAPTAIN BOWIE’S DETACHMENT FROM USS TOWERS WILL BE DELAYED. NEW DATES TO FOLLOW.
5. (UNCL) COMMANDER KATHERINE ELIZABETH SILVA IS DIRECTED TO REMAIN ABOARD USS TOWERS AS PROSPECTIVE COMMANDING OFFICER FOR THE DURATION OF CURRENT OPERATIONS, OR UNTIL USS TOWERS IS ROTATED OUT OF THE OPERATING AREA. COMMANDER SILVA IS ADVISED TO UTILIZE THIS ADDITIONAL TIME TO CONTINUE PREPARING FOR ASSUMPTION OF COMMAND, SUCH PREPARATIONS NOT TO INTERFERE WITH SHIP’S MISSION REQUIREMENTS.
6. (UNCL) FURTHER DETAILS WILL BE ISSUED VIA SEPCOR.
//301355Z NOV//
//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//
//UNCLASSIFIED//
//UUUUUUUUUU//
Silva closed the folder and laid it on her desk. “I’ve actually been expecting this for a while,” she said.
“So have I,” said Bowie. “But I know how frustrating this must be. I was ready to turn over the keys in five days.”
He smiled weakly. “Okay, maybe not ready. I don’t think anyone is ever ready to turn over command of a warship, but I was prepared to do it.”
Silva sighed heavily. “I know you were, Jim, and I appreciate that. And I understand why the Bureau is doing this. You don’t change jockeys in the middle of a race. But I can’t pretend that I’m not disappointed.”
“I understand,” Bowie said. “If I were in your shoes right now, I’d be peeling the paint off the bulkheads.”
“I’m tempted to do that, myself,” said Silva. “But they’re not my bulkheads yet, so I guess I’d better leave the paint intact.”
Bowie patted the bulkhead next to the door. “They will be yours soon,” he said. “Before you know it.”
Silva looked back down at the closed routing folder on her desk. “Yeah,” she said. The disappointment in her voice was audible. “Soon.”
CHAPTER 34
--------------------------------------------------
From:
Sent: Sunday, November 30, 11:52 PM
To:
Subject: Change In Plans
Dear Dad,
Got a little bad news a couple of hours ago. The Bureau of Personnel has issued orders delaying my change of command until this operational deployment is over. So, Jim Bowie gets to sit in the hot seat a while longer, while your loving daughter cools her heels and waits her turn. (How’s that for mixing up the old metaphors?)
I guess I really don’t have anything to complain about. Jim is an excellent skipper, and a great guy. He couldn’t possibly be any more helpful or thoughtful, and the crew worships him. Needless to say, I’m not happy about the delay, but if I have to warm the bench for a while, it’s nice to know that the man playing in my spot is an A-list player.
Before you get started, Jim is not my type, so don’t even go there. He has a long-term girlfriend, or a fiancé, or something. I don’t know the details, and I’m not going to ask. Whenever I get serious about a relationship, it won’t be with a Navy man. Don’t get me wrong, I like men in uniform, but I figure one Captain Ahab is enough for any family. Besides, I intend to be married to this ship for a couple of years.
This situation does have an up-side. I’m getting a chance to see my new ship and crew perform under pressure before I take command. We’ve got an Indian battle group on one side of us, and a Chinese battle group on the other, and that’s a little like being between the hammer and the anvil. We’re not in combat, and (God willing) we’re not going to be, but the situation is tense. The crew is performing beautifully. I’m already proud of every man and woman on this ship, and I’ll be proud to lead them when the time comes.
Give Mom a kiss for me, and stop feeding scraps of food to Snickers under the table. Twelve years is getting up there for a pug, and they’re prone to heart problems at that age. Scratch him behind the ears instead, and tell him it’s from me.
Love,
Kat
CDR Katherine E. Silva
USS Towers (DDG-103)
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER 35
U STREET CAFE
WASHINGTON, DC
SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER
6:30 PM EST
Gregory Brenthoven found an open table near the rear of the café. He chose a seat facing away from the entrance, so he could enjoy the brightly-colored Joel Bergner mural that enlivened the entire back wall.
Brenthoven pulled the lid from his cappuccino, and emptied two packets of raw sugar onto the thick layer of steamed milk at the top. The heavy brown crystals sank quickly through the foam, leaving an irregular tunnel down to the dark liquid below. He gave the mixture a few quick turns with a wooden stir stick and replaced the cover.
The aroma rising from the cup was heavenly. There were plenty of fancier coffee shops in the District, but his long career in Washington had not revealed a single place that served up a finer cup of cappuccino.
