Sword of Shiva - Страница 40

She keyed the remote again, and a group of red missile silhouettes appeared to the right of the strike group. “The second wave appeared from the east, approximately ten minutes later, as the carrier’s escorts and aircraft were engaging the decoys of the first wave. The second wave consisted of forty anti-ship cruise missiles, all targeted on the aircraft carrier.”

She nodded toward the CNO. “As Admiral Casey pointed out, these missiles were probably a Chinese air-launched variant of the SSN-27 Sizzler. The launching platforms were not detected, leading us to assume that the attacking aircraft stayed extremely low to the water, and fired from close to the maximum range of the SSN-27. Roughly 160 nautical miles. The missiles remained undetected until they switched on their radars for the terminal phase, and accelerated to Mach 2.”

SECDEF pressed another key on the remote, and the easternmost of the blue destroyer silhouettes was highlighted on the display. “The only shooter in a position to intercept was USS Frank W. Fenno. The targeting window was extremely narrow, but the Fenno successfully killed thirty-one of the inbound missiles. The Midway’s defensive weapons managed to knock out seven of the remaining nine.”

The Secretary of Defense sat down. “The last two missiles made it all the way through to the Midway. And we’ve just seen the results of that.”

President Wainwright looked at the map on the big screen. “So the second wave, the planes that launched the attack, came from the Chinese aircraft carrier as well?”

The CNO shook his head. “Probably not, Mr. President. To stay outside the radar coverage of our strike group, aircraft from the Liaoning would have had to divert east, past the Andaman and Nicobar Islands; turn north and fly up the long axis of the Andaman Sea; and then turn west, back into the Bay of Bengal. Even with several aerial refuelings, that’s beyond the capacity of Chinese carrier-based aircraft. And then, they’d have to turn around and do it all in reverse, on the return leg.”

“Okay,” the president said, “where the hell did they come from?”

“We don’t know for certain,” the Secretary of Defense said, “but our best guess is Myanmar. They share a border with China, and the PRC is a close ally of the Burmese, as well as one of their top economic trading partners. We don’t think the Burmese military actually launched the attack, but they may have permitted their airbases to be used as a staging area for Chinese strike planes.”

The president suppressed a grimace. The Republic of Myanmar had no particular love for the United States. The U.S. had been imposing economic sanctions against the country since the late 1990s, to penalize the government for decades of continually worsening human rights violations.

During his days in the Senate, Wainwright himself had led a multinational initiative to convince the European Union to tighten their economic sanctions against Myanmar. The Burmese government didn’t have the military or economic muscle to stand directly against the United States, but they might welcome the opportunity to help their Chinese buddies poke America in the eye.

“Alright,” the president said. “What are our options?”

No one spoke for several seconds.

Finally, the Chief of Naval Operations leaned forward. The lined skin of his tanned face gave his features the weather beaten gravitas of that famous Gloucester Fisherman painting by Joseph Margulies. “Frankly, Mr. President, I think it’s time for us to turn up the heat. Just before the strike on the Midway, we issued new Rules of Engagement to our naval forces in the area. Since the attack, we’ve been on a defensive footing. I say we continue with the plan, and go after the Chinese carrier, and every PRC military unit in the region.”

The president shook his head. “How in the name of God did we end up in a shooting match with the Chinese Navy?”

Admiral Casey’s eyebrows went up. “Is that a rhetorical question, Mr. President?”

“Hell no, it’s not rhetorical,” the president said. “When my alarm clock went off this morning, I did not expect to be at war with the People’s Republic of China by lunch time.”

“Mr. President, we’re not at war,” the Secretary of Defense said. “Hostilities have escalated farther than we were expecting, but this is still a regionalized conflict, with a limited scope of operations. We are not at war with the PRC.”

The president looked in her direction. “But the situation doesn’t show any signs of stabilizing, does it? It’s escalating, as you just pointed out. Can you guarantee that this conflict won’t keep spreading until we are at war with China?”

“No, sir,” SECDEF said. “I can’t give you any guarantees. All I can offer is my best counsel. And I solemnly believe that if we back away now, there will be war.”

Admiral Casey nodded in agreement. “Mr. President, we got into this dogfight to prevent India from destroying the Three Gorges site. If we walk away now, the Indians are going to carry out their attack, as planned. And you remember what happens after that… Catastrophic flooding of the Yangtze River basin. Three major cities wiped out, and half of China’s industrial base washed out to sea. A death toll in the tens of millions — possibly hundreds of millions. When the Chinese retaliate, and they will retaliate, they’re going to hammer India into the Stone Age.”

“I agree,” the Secretary of Defense said. “We could be looking at a full-scale nuclear exchange between China and India. But even if the reprisals don’t go nuclear, the casualty rate could easily dwarf the entire body-count from the Second World War.”

“And there’s another aspect to this,” Admiral Casey said. “If we get a bloody nose, and then back down from the fight, our national deterrence goes down the toilet. We signal to the entire world that China is the dominant military power on this planet. We will be effectively handing them the reins.”

The president sat in silence for several seconds. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Okay. We stay in the fight. It looks like every other alternative leads to more bloodshed in the long run.”

He turned toward the admiral. “Are we ready for this? Our primary means of force projection is damaged. Possibly crippled. It looks to me like we might not have the horsepower to do the job.”

“We’ll have to shift some additional assets into the operating area,” Admiral Casey said. “But our first step should be to get the message out to our forces in the region. Go after the bad guys, and do it now.”

President Wainwright rubbed the back of his neck. “Can they do it?”

The CNO nodded gravely. “If we give them the word, Mr. President, I promise you they’ll get the job done.”

CHAPTER 45

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

BAY OF BENGAL

TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER

0317 hours (3:17 AM)

TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’

Katherine Silva was dreaming of Savannah when the call came. Random snatches of her childhood, strung together in no particular order.

The cobblestones of River Street damp and glistening after an evening rain. Ripples in the dark river tossing back wobbly reflections of the restaurant marquis lights and shop windows. The wind carried the bright salt aroma of the ocean and the hint of cities, countries, and entire continents hiding somewhere below the curve of the horizon.

Kat was eight years old, her father a tall comforting silhouette under the golden aura of the faux colonial street lamps. The world was out there. She knew that. Had known it the first time she had seen the river, and its broad mouth opening to the ocean just a few miles downstream from where she now stood. For her, the world was not here, on the bank of the river — at least not the important parts. It was out there, where the sky bent down to touch the sea.

“I’m going to be a pirate,” she said in a solemn voice.

Her father didn’t laugh. “I thought you wanted to be a shrimp boat captain,” he said.

“Or a pirate,” Kat said. “Or just build my own boat, and sail around the world.”

She threw her arms wide, to encompass the river and the ocean somewhere at the end of it. “I want to be out there,” she said.

Her father nodded. “I know.” And he did know.

* * *

Kat was twelve years old, standing on the uneven plank deck of her homemade raft, gripping the mast as the unstable vessel bobbed and rolled in the waves. Built from a pair of wooden shipping pallets nailed together with scraps of lumber, the raft was kept afloat by three truck inner tubes and two dozen empty plastic milk jugs, all tied beneath the pallets with carefully-knotted binder twine.

She had christened her raft the Spray, after the famous sloop of Joshua Slocum: the first man to sail around the world solo.

This was the maiden voyage of the Spray, and Kat had intended it as a brief excursion. Just a quick loop in the Wilmington River, using her bed sheet sail to tack upstream, and then ride the current back to her launch point in an easy glide.

But Kat had not yet equipped her vessel with a centerboard or a keel — a refinement that was apparently more necessary than she had assumed. No matter how she trimmed her sail or which way she turned the plywood rudder, the raft followed the current. She’d been out here several hours now, trying to edge her way back toward the bank as she drifted farther and farther downstream.