"Hi, Papa! Take a wrong turn
somewhere?" Kelly grinned at him.
Dutch was a big man with a
square jaw and an ever-present cigar. He leapt to his feet. Kelly caught
a glimpse of him bolting toward her just as the other flight leader, Mac
McCarty, came up behind her. Dutch didn’t look like he was here to
praise her resourcefulness, but instead more likely to bury her. He
shoved in next to Red, directly in front of Kelly.
"Well, Lieutenant Owen,
I guess you won," Dutch said sarcastically.
Kelly chose her words slowly
and carefully. "I don't see it as winning. I see it as ensuring our
survival. What we brought back is the capability to track hundreds of
air and sea targets."
"Prowlers do
that!" Dutch retorted.
"Sorry, CAG, the
Prowlers' old radars don't have the capability to track large swarms of
targets. Did you get the test reports I sent?"
He plucked the cigar from
his mouth. "I don't have time to read all of your goddamned test
reports--"
Major General Wan Zhensheng's staff car slowed
as it approached the gatehouse of Fujian Naval Base. The guard had been
alerted to the imminent arrival of the Director of Chinese Intelligence
-- The General Staff's Second Department -- for the People's Liberation
Army. The car turned into a wide street lined with red brick buildings
at the end of which was one statelier than the others --The Headquarters
of Vice Admiral Yang Xuetong, Head of the East Sea Fleet.
The Chinese military was
confident that they had the imperialist American Navy checkmated. The
carrier USS Lincoln had returned from a tour of duty in the
Middle East and entered the shipyard at Newport News for refitting. That
meant all the U.S. carriers were either in refitting, work-up, or
deployed on operational missions involving terrorists. The Americans
also had nothing but trouble deploying their missile shield. If China
was to unify Taiwan with the Mainland it must be done forcibly, and now
was the time. Without an operational missile shield, the Americans not
only couldn't defend Taiwan, they couldn't defend themselves. Then, out
of nowhere, an American Battle Group appeared. Beijing was in shock.
Vice Admiral Yang kept Major General Wan
waiting in his anteroom for twenty minutes. Wan paced the floor. "Hai,
I hate dealing with this little bastard," he growled inwardly as
his anger mounted.
"I will come straight to the point," Wan said
forcefully upon entering Yang's office. "My CMC intelligence
organization is being compelled by the Party to explain how the Yankee
fleet arrived without warning."
"Comrade Director, I cannot help you. That is your
department."
Wan fumed. "You were given intelligence
resources to keep track of the progress of the American missile shield.
Why are they here? Do they or do they not have a missile shield?"
* * *
Kelly entered her stateroom, took off her
flight suit and dropped it on the chair. What a pleasant surprise to see
her grandfather. Maybe he could help sort out her life. The conflict and
effort over the last few weeks had taken a heavy toll. Success had
raised questions in Kelly's mind about her capabilities and limitations.
Being a Top Gun and talented strike leader was not an automatic path to
command. But her career problems
were not her only concerns. What Greg didn't know was that she was
engaged to Jerry Ringer. Kelly gazed at Jerry's picture, and then held
it close, trying to feel his presence. Maybe she should send him an
email. Long periods of separation made their relationship difficult.
"In the coming
battles with China, I have one big concern," Ben said. "We're
introducing too many new weapon systems at one time. The Flag and fleet
commanders are not only agitated over changes made to the missile
shield, but also with new radars, anti-torpedoes and unmanned
vehicles."
"Sure, Ben, these are sweeping changes,
but consider the opportunity--"
"Opportunity, hell! Funding was delayed
for too long, and now these systems are hitting the fleet all at once at
the worst possible time. The world underestimated China, Greg."
"If they work as
expected, the world will see the dawn of a new order."
"And if they don't?"
Greg didn’t have to say it -- they both knew.
Failure could mean the demise of American sea power.
As they emerged on the flight deck, Greg
strained forward, leaning into the thirty-knot wind. The launch ballet
was already in progress. The flight deck was a stage where men and
machines danced a deadly and dangerous routine. The performers had
clearly defined roles, identified by their color-coded jerseys. One
missed cue could mean instant death.
"Looks like we have a few minutes. I'll
show you the Ouija Board." Jack shouted over the deafening roar of
the jets.
"The what?"
Hooking his thumb toward Deck Control, Jack
motioned Greg to follow. They entered the windowless room where the
Chief Handler and his crew kept track of all the aircraft on both the
flight and hangar decks. The room was a beehive of activity around a
table that replicated the flight deck. Using colored cutouts of the
aircraft -- along with everything from wing nuts and bolts to tack pins
to represent fuel state, ordnance, and other aircraft requirements --
the handler and plane captains moved equipment back and forth to
optimize the arrangement for launch. Here, and in Combat one deck above,
was where the ballet going on outside was orchestrated… the deck hands
made changes relayed from Deck Control and then transmitted the
information to the Launch Director at the catapult. The Launch Director
relayed it to the pilot by holding up a chalkboard as the pilot taxied
onto the steam catapult. If the pilot agreed, the Catapult Director
dialed in the plane’s launch speed to the giant slingshot.
He felt like part of a select audience
watching a complex choreographed ballet unfold. Pantomime was the
essential part of this ballet that cued the dancers, deafened by the
roar of jets. The war dance was carried out in pantomime against the
whining rhythmic beat of jet engines and the helicopters' thump-thump.
The choreographers planning the flight operations drama had to
accommodate a choice of dancers, music, costume, and decor.
Wardroom One, known as the
"Dirty Shirt Mess," forward on the zero-three level, was where
many of the crew ate. Working uniforms were the norm. Flight suits, deck
jerseys, dirty khakis were all acceptable. The service was cafeteria
style, with plenty of good food.
From this vantage point, the personnel in
their multicolored shirts moving planes and weapons, hands flying in
pantomime to negotiate their transactions through the deck noise, looked
not so much like a ballet as a hectic day in the Chicago Commodity
Exchange trading pits.
"What do you do when a five to six
hundred-ton Corvette dashes in at thirty eight knots from 140 miles
away, fires four missiles, turns around and vanishes in some coastal
inlet. It takes eighty seconds at Mach 3 for a Sunburn missile to travel
the first hundred-twenty miles. Then it dives down to twenty-five feet
over the water and continues at Mach 2.2. By the time the Aegis search
radar acquires the target and classifies it -- it's too late. You're
dead."
The Launch Director thrust his body and
arm down and forward, like a fencer the jets exploded into the air.
Afterburners kicked in and the planes rotated off the end of the deck,
climbing and disappearing into the overcast sky. Seconds later, the
blast shields protecting the crew from the inferno-like jet exhaust
vanished into the deck.
Second Class Petty Officer Mike Chaffee,
the weapons technician on the Seahawk, had successfully launched a
torpedo at a diesel submarine a few minutes earlier. Like hitting a
home run. Now he was up at bat again. He had two torpedo boats
illuminated with his FLIR, and he was the designated shooter. Just like
in baseball he stepped into the 's box and signaled the Rhinos to launch
their missiles.
"God almighty,"
Preistman bellowed. "How could a Chinese sub penetrate our inner
screen?"
* * *
The miniature airplane on the
gyro was flying to the left of the vertical needle. Kelly made a small
correction to the right, but with the lurching plane and bouncing needle
it was hard to judge where the center of the instrument was. Finally,
the tiny aircraft symbol centered on the vertical needle, and she
adjusted throttle slightly to hold speed. She pushed the nose down, over
compensating, and the aircraft symbol dropped too rapidly. The sudden
change startled her. Like a beginner, she began oscillating above and
below the glide slope.
"Patch in Washington, too. They
should all see what’s going on. Ask 'em to contact the Chinese Embassy
and find out if there's a declaration of war. We've sunk eleven of their
submarines and forty-six of their torpedo boats. Tell 'em we have
another sub targeted inside our screen. If they don't want it destroyed,
they'd better tell him to surface and surrender. Otherwise, we sink
him."
Through the rain, she
concentrated on three critical parameters: the meatball on the left side
of the ship for glide-slope, the centerline of the deck for lineup, and
the angle-of-attack indicator in the upper left corner of the instrument
panel for airspeed. She had to juggle these parameters to land safely.
Every muscle in her body tensed as the deck sped up toward her.
Instrument lights in the cockpit were duplicated on the external
nose-wheel landing-gear door and clearly visible to the LSOs positioned
near the ramp. Orientation of the lights told them whether she was fast,
slow, or on speed. Any significant deviation would cause the LSO to
trigger the red flashing lights and she would be forced to abort. Taking
a deep breath, Kelly concentrated on the deck speeding toward her.
Kelly reluctantly
followed the yellow-shirt's signals forward, where he was going to spot
her hanging over the water. She felt helpless, at the mercy of the
yellow-shirt. "Damn, I hate that," she said to herself.
Her nose wheel was inches from the edge of the deck. She'd be sitting
out over the water as the ship rolled toward those eight-foot waves.
***
Greg saw the flaming gas ball rise just before the shock
wave picked him up and slammed him against the bulkhead. He saw his
roommate leap over the side of his burning Banshee. He had to be a
goner; no one could survive that fireball! Gripped with fear, Greg
picked himself up.
The mushroom cloud of
gasoline rapidly expanded, as it appeared to consume everything. The
"hot papas," encased in their white-helmeted fireproof suits,
moved in from all directions with foam. Greg didn't see how they could
survive, let alone subdue the fire. This was no place for him.
Turning, he took one
giant step to the ladder inside Deck Control that led to the decks
below. He headed for the Ready Room to get his Mae West life jacket, in
case he had to abandon ship. As Greg turned the corner on the ladder, he
took another big step down and caught a "white hat" squarely
in the chest with his foot.
"I'm sorry about your wingman,"
Greg said.
Kelly just sipped the steaming coffee.
He watched her struggle for control. The battle had
obviously drained her. A treacherous recovery in foul weather. Now this.
"First tour?"
"Uh huh. The weather and turbulence were awful;
deck tossing, and low ceiling almost down to the white caps. He didn't
have enough traps or time in type to handle an instrument approach in
weather like that. He was unlucky. If it had been a training exercise,
we'd have been recalled before the weather got so bad."
Greg groped for words to
soften Kelly's grief. But no mere words could do that.
"Papa," Kelly said, finally her
voice tentative. "You know I'm in the promotion zone for lieutenant
commander, possibly selection to command."
"I heard
that." Greg hoped she could hear his pride reflected in those three
words. His granddaughter was already a lieutenant commander. She could
go as high as she determined to go.
"I'm not sure I
want to consider command."
What! She doesn't
want command? Greg's mouth dropped. It took a moment to compose
himself. "Why?" he asked.
"Leadership. Papa, I
don't know how to lead."
"I'm not sure I'm up to this new era
of leadership. Or even want to be," Kelly fumed. "How do I
cope with vague accusations of ogling, leering, touching? Or how do I
handle racial and ethnic slurs? Real or imagined."
You're probably the best
woman strike pilot, if not the best strike pilot, in the Navy. Why are
you so worried about being screened for XO?"
"I'm afraid I don't
have the aptitude or people skills."
***
There was another threat they faced that night
-- a steely yellow-eyed demon with long, sharp, pearly white teeth that
shared the cockpit with every strike pilot. Every yappin frappy nugget
had heard about the "night thing" that sucked lift off wings,
turned boats backward during the landing approach, and created sinkholes
at the back of the boat seconds before the plane came over the ramp for
a night trap.
The red battle lamps illuminated the deck
and the eerie group of ballet dancers. A yellow-shirted plane handler
appeared from the wisps of steam blown aft from the catapults to lead a
pilot to a parking space. Kelly watched as the reddish-yellow figure
swept his lighted wands wildly over his head like some wild island fire
dancer.
Through the
night-vision goggles, Kelly and Curly had moved out of one scene from
Dante's Inferno into another. They watched arcs of fire signal
the pilot to fold his wings and maneuver his Hornet into a tight space
among the rest of the planes.
Flick the external light master switch
with your left hand. Instantly the Growler was transformed from a
dark-gray machine into a glowing red-and-green Christmas tree. The jet
strained against the holdback fitting, restraining the two 22,000-pound
GE turbofan engines roaring at full power beneath her. Now she'd find
out whether the demons were pleased with her.
Sheng looked out at
the sunset. The whiffs of cirrostratus were ablaze with reds, oranges,
and tints of purple. Vibrant greens rimmed the edge of the clouds. The
intensity was so great he had to look away. When his glance returned,
the sunset's blaze of color had faded to shades of purple. The sky
darkened rapidly and he donned his night goggles.
Kelly looked down at the empty expanse of
ocean that surrounded her, then up at the brilliant display of stars and
galaxies. The goggles cast a green pale over the scene. Over land was
relaxing, because you always had lighted cities, towns, villages, and
highways as a reference. Flying over open ocean with no landfall in
sight invited night demons into the cockpit. What if I lose an engine…my
instruments…in a rough sea? I'd be agoner if it weren't for two
engines. Somewhere in that dark abyss of endless ocean was a carrier
they had to find and land on before the fuel ran out. At some point they
would have to shift their attention and put their faith into finding
that four-and-a-half acres of flight deck that had long since
disappeared. Imagine, Kelly thought, I've staked my life on
the signal that controls that little arrow on the navigation compass.
A close-in encounter was unlikely at
night, but anything was possible. If it happened, she wanted to just
point her head at the target and fire a Sidewinder. That possibility
always gave her a rush. In an over-the-horizon attack, she knew she
could count on launching an AMRAAM, no matter what direction the attack
came from or what attitude the plane was in. Once she fired an AMRAAM,
she could forget about it and turn her attention to the next target. Its
sensors would hunt the target down without her help.
* * *
At thirty-five, Mike was the chief executive
officer for the GE appliance manufacturing plant located near GE's large
research center in Shanghai. A clean-cut, up-and-coming star in the GE
empire, he was well connected among the party's fast-track young
executives, not only here on the mainland but in Hong Kong and Taiwan as
well, which made him a valuable ally. Wan's principal purpose, however,
for cultivating him was to use him to determine how serious the U.S was
about defending Taiwan. As Lenin had so aptly said, hang the capitalists
with the rope they sell us.
"Shi's a hardliner strategist for
the party who watches political trends in Taiwan. Shi says Beijing
emphasizes blood ties between Taiwan and China. He argues that Taiwan's
national identity and drive for self-determination depends on
socialization, not blood ties. He thinks education plays the strong
roll."
"I think going to war
over Taiwan is a strategic mistake."
Wan raised his eyebrows.
"Taiwan's thrust for independence ebbs by the day. Don't you
realize there's a mass migration of professionals and investors to the
mainland? Where do you think all those people come from that live in
Kunshan, outside of Shanghai?" Kunshan was home to 30,000 emigrants
from Taiwan, with their own schools, country clubs, and villas. It was
the production and research and development base for Taiwan's largest
companies. Over a half-million people from Taiwan out of a population of
23 million lived and worked in China. "You're a naive fool, my
friend."
"The only problem we have is old
China is wary of capitalist China." Old China was skeptical of this
new breed of young elitists. There was no social safety net for the
unemployed or for medical benefits in China, so their welfare had to be
taken into account by these brash, young entrepreneurs. The challenges
for the joint venture partners were immense. Officials were wary that
creative destruction of old China and its inefficient state enterprises
would be handled poorly and blamed on them. Labor protests and outrage
erupted the same in China as it did anywhere else in the world and the
old China bureaucrats feared anything that rocked their boat.
Mike looked at Wan. "You remember
how we talked about the two things that had to be changed to make a
market economy work: state-run enterprises and state-run banks? China's
done a good job of opening the state-run enterprises, but I'm afraid
China has dragged its feet too long on opening state-run banks to
private enterprise." Mike twirled the stem of his brandy glass.
"The world banks fear that if you open your banks, they won"t
be able to compete and your entire domestic banking industry will
collapse."
"Nonsense! We'll
create the same success opening private banks as we did opening private
enterprises. But it will be on our timetable."
The Chinese Director
of Intelligence sat in the back seat nervously tapping his fingers on
the armrest. Wan was tense and upset. It was an elaborate game of chess
that he played with the capitalists, full of the complexity that his
analytical mind enjoyed. Lure the Westerners into business relationships
that seemed rich with potential profit. Seduce them with the prospect of
that great, sleeping giant known as China, and entice them with all the
opportunities that a market of more than one billion consumers might
provide. Then, when the capitalists had sold their souls, the taking of
Taiwan would be easier. The greedy pigs would persuade Washington to
look the other way when the annexation happened so that their
investments would be protected. And, if things went wrong, those same
capitalists could be enlisted to protect China or else risk the chance
of their business dealings being made public in a messy congressional
hearing. Wan sensed these Americans were extremely gullible. Don't
they have any notion that China's strategy is to diminish U.S. influence
and presence in the Pacific by pushing U.S. influence out of Asia,
undermine U.S. alliances through maritime intimidation, and then take
advantage of U.S. stretched resources from continuous conflict in the
Middle East?
Wan had escaped the Cultural Revolution
and purges of the '70s. He had studied engineering at Beijing's
prestigious Oinghua University and been selected to attend the Central
Party School at the Imperial Summer Palace. Wan pointed at the newspaper
on his desk. "I see you are the featured lecturer this month at the
university."
Tan looked surprised.
"A series on comparative political systems. Comparing our unique
form of Chinese fascism with other political systems."
"Should elicit a
good response from students."
"Since scrapping
the communist economic system, students want to know why we haven't
embraced capitalism."
"And --"
"They also
question management and shareholders holding government jobs at the same
time."
"How did you
extract yourself from that conflict of interest?"
"I admitted it
leads to bribery and graft," Tan replied. "Then, there are
always questions about why China maintains a single party
dictatorship."
"We have to
control a large diverse society. Of course, you told them we can not
tolerate Western-style freedoms and democracy."
Wan reviewed the details with Tan. An
announcement would be made in the UN on the following day that would be
designed to be received as a Chinese appeasement. Stop hostilities while
the two parties attempted to reach a peaceful resolution over Taiwan. Of
course, no peaceful resolution would be reached. China would use the
delay to attack Taiwan.
* * *
"My concerns are the same as yours
were," Kelly said. "Am I doomed by history to make the same
mistakes? I don't want a career of buildbust cycles, policy mistakes.
Coming out of WWII the U.S. was invincible. What changed? Korea? How did
a third world power nearly defeat us? Then came Vietnam, the Cold War,
Gulf War, Balkan wars, terrorist wars, and Iraq. Why have all these wars
been so indecisive?"
"Indecisive?"
"MacArthur was the Supreme Allied
Commander in Japan. He saw himself as the last imperial leader of the
twentieth century. Japan was his empire. He ruled Japan and reasoned
that because Japan crushed China, he had no reason to fear a bunch of
third-world communists in China and Korea. His arrogance set the stage
for complacency, while he cleverly built up a cult of personality around
himself."
"It's hard to believe MacArthur would
use the media to bolster his hero status."
"No, it isn't. He was a politician
doing what politicians do to raise poll ratings." After the U.N.
forces beat back the North Korean Army, MacArthur was repeatedly warned
by the Joint Chiefs not to press toward the Yalu River. The Chinese
warned the UN they would attack in force if MacArthur moved the UN
forces across the Thirty-Eighth Parallel, north to the Yalu River.
"He's the epitome of the military leader we need to avoid. He was
permitted to acquire too much power. Achieved imperial prominence
through a cult of personality. I blame it on the media and civilian
leaders." The Korean War was an endless tale of policy mistakes.
"We stumbled at nation building initially in both Korea and Iraq,
but we persevered in Korea and we’ll persevere in Iraq."
* * *
The light rain turned into a downpour. One at a time, enlisted men armed
with large umbrellas appeared at the bus to escort the senior officers
from the Politburo, Central Military Commission (CMC), General Staff,
and other commands. The men shed their raincoats and hats in the
expansive front hall and joined the PLA Army, Navy, and Air Force
officers assembled in a large conference room. Senior officers made
their way to designated places at the long conference table, leaving
junior officers to find chairs along the walls. The room had the dingy
appearance characteristic of old government buildings. The dull
yellowish walls were the backdrop for portraits of the party's
luminaries, Mao to Jiang Zemin and the current President, Hu Jintao.
Major General Wan
stood patiently at the end of the conference table while the group
formally greeted one another. He was tired and tense from a long meeting
with the Party earlier in the day. The Director of Intelligence motioned
for attention and continued in a strong voice. "Tonight's mission
will be a massive saturation raid on the American Battle Group. Air
Force Bombers, attack aircraft, and mobile land-based launchers armed
with the new version of the Sunburn cruise missile will carry out the
attack."
"How many cruise
missiles are we talking about?" Captain Anderson asked.
"Five
hundred." Ernie's reply produced instant shock. Shoulders and
mouths dropped.
"My God! How do
we defend against a saturation raid of that magnitude?" the admiral
demanded.
"We don't know.
We've never faced a threat like this," Ernie said sheepishly.
***
The Chinese officers all staunchly supported
saturation defense against a massive force. The concept had its roots
with Sun Tzu, who had written The Art of War more than twenty-five
hundred years earlier. The Chinese, and Japanese samurai as well,
considered this book their bible for strategy, not only for war but also
as a philosophy for warriors to live by.
***
White segments suddenly flashed on the outer rim of Kelly's CEC screen.
Her heads-up helmet display indicated three Flankers locked on her. The
awful sound of the radar-warning receiver startled her. She began to
hyperventilate. She was targeted.
When she turned onto the boat's
centerline, the night demon appeared on the windshield and taunted her
with its steely yellow eyes. She imagined the boat turned backward.
Touches of vertigo made her feel the lift being sucked off the wings.
The sky suddenly darkened. She had an impulse to squeeze on more power
as she approached the fantail where the sinkhole lurked. Doggedly, she
fought off the demon's bidding.
***
The air battle was over. For weeks, CNN and the broadcast channels
analyzed it. Analysts collected on PBS's News Hour, voicing their
acclaim for the Battle Group's success. The claim that a Navy Battle
Group with a single large-deck carrier possessed more firepower than the
tenth largest air force in the world was not lost on the world's TV
viewers.
President Bush put the
UN and its members on notice that the conduct of the Iraqi regime was a
threat to the authority of the UN itself. If the members of the body
couldn't muster the fortitude to do something about Iraq, then U.S.
action was unavoidable. Bush pointed to the UN's founding after
generations of deceitful dictators, broken treaties, and squandered
lives. Would the UN serve the purpose of its founding or would it prove
to be irrelevant? The response was yet another resolution that
dispatched weapons inspectors. Diplomacy failed. With no other option
left, the U.S. went to war with a small but significant coalition of
"the willing." Now, the UN was meddling again, in an American
initiative to stop China, the neighborhood bully, from invading one of
the world's most important emerging democracies.
"Damn the Security Council!" Kelly
couldn't keep the venom from her voice. "Every time we take an
action to defend weak countries, we’re blocked in the UN. Terrorist
countries like Iran or neighborhood bullies -- like China." Her
voice rose, her face flushed, and her words splattered over her
grandfather. He was obviously surprised at her rage.
"America's
problem is trying to determine how to perpetuate and expand its power
effectively around the world without offending 190 member
countries."
Kelly sat up straight. "That's easy.
Get rid of the UN."
"At the end of the Cold War there
was a period of euphoria. Then terrorists began to strike all over the
globe. That galvanized the U.S. It was time to reform the post-World War
II model, revise our alliances and demand reform in institutions like
the UN."
"What's wrong
with our alliances?" Kelly asked.
"They're
offshoots of regimes that emerged from the collapse of colonial empires
after World War I and World War II. Many of these regimes have no
democratic foundations, like rule-of-law, and are governed by abusive
monarchies, dictators, tyrants, warlords, and psychopaths. They're the
legacy Europe left for the rest of the world to repair. Europe's wealth
and resolve to help these regimes vanished long ago. The U.S. has to
sort through the carcass to find constructive alliances."
Kelly wanted her quality of life, as well
as the rest of the crew's, to be fulfilled. If up and down the ranks
their expectations were satisfied, the war-fighting machine would
survive and their careers would be advanced. Was that a childish,
idealistic kind of thought? "Everyone in today's world knows
tedious, repetitious work destroys morale," Kelly said.
"Incentives have to be infused to change the boat driver's mindset
and all the rest of his community. The incentive is to cleverly reduce
the manning levels and enrich the work experience."
"It's a war, Jerry. And I do what
I'm trained for. Just like you."
"I know. I can
hear our kids explaining what our jobs are to their classmates. 'Mommy
shoots planes down, and Daddy's work is secret. If he tells us, he'd
have to kill us."'
"Jerry, did you call to pick a
fight?"
"No. I called to ask you to marry
me."
* * *
"It's a mobile landing field with an
air force that has more warfighting capability than all but the top ten
countries in the world," Greg said. "You can take this
platform anywhere. You don't need to sit down with any banana republic
and negotiate where you take it. You don't have to quibble over docking
rights, berthing costs, or the right to land."
"China is a
huge disconnect," Greg said. "The reformers welcome us. The
hard-liners threaten us with nuclear destruction. Free-Traders have been
duped into complacency. There's plenty of cause for concern. China's the
last communist nuclear power and unpredictable."
"Didn't election scandals lead to
further revelations of Chinese influence peddling?" Pate asked.
"An elaborate network of Chinese island bases was discovered that
directly threatened the U.S. and was intended to cut off trade with
Asia."
"With nuclear missiles in Cuba pointed
at the U.S., imagine the leverage China has to threaten the U.S. at the
same time they invade Taiwan."
* * *
Won wondered how the wise Sun Tzu would have
viewed China's current inbred hostility caused by a rigid strategic
policy and expansive world aspirations. "You Americans risk a
Chinese nuclear strike if you intervene in a conflict between China and
Taiwan. Do you value Taipei more than Los Angeles?" Wan had
helped draft the PLA's plan for the future. The strategic goal was to
build a world-class military force with modern strategic missiles and a
navy capable of projecting power far beyond China's shores. A
tantalizing idea that captured Wan's imagination was a plan for China to
use the Panama Canal to block access to commerce and naval ships at
either end of the canal.
* * *
NORAD's early warning satellites, looking down
on the Chinese missile complexes, detected exhaust plumes from hundreds
of rockets. Long-range radars on the Aegis ships identified and locked
on Chinese boosters and designated them as targets for intercept. The
missile ship Iwo Jima launched 255 long-range interceptor missiles from
its missile tubes. The ship was capable of firing 2,400 rounds -- 1,200
each of T1 and T2 interceptors. Flight times for the Chinese missiles
varied from eight to twenty minutes. The boost phase required five to
seven minutes before warheads and decoys could be deployed. This window
was all the time available for the interceptors to destroy the missiles
in the boost phase before the warhead was deployed.
"We're targeted," Pate said.
At that moment the
officer-of-the-deck ordered the ship into a tight turn. The huge ship heaved as the four giant
propellers surged to full ahead and the helmsman spun the rudder to
port. Everyone grabbed for a handhold.
Greg's hands began to tremble. He set his
coffee mug down and his right eye started twitching uncontrollably. It
was a historic moment, but he felt no elation. He was numbed by what had
just happened… the only Battle Group equipped with a Sea Shield had
foreclosed the missile threat to the world.
"A Battle Group
with a Sea Shield is only twenty-four hours from any country," Pate
said. "Bullies will now know their missiles are useless. Cross a
land border to invade a neighbor and you attract a Battle Group with a
Marine Expeditionary Force." A Marine Expeditionary Force was the
single most powerful fighting force in the world. With 75 percent of the
world's population and infrastructure lying within three hundred miles
of the littoral-coastal populations meant the Marines were within three
hours of striking with their full war-fighting capability.
"What country is
equipped to go up against a force with a Sea Shield?" the admiral
wanted to know.
The door was still open for non-national
terrorists. Electronic and economic warfare and a Sea Shield didn't
solve the problem of weapons of mass destruction (WMD). But if you're a
terrorist, a Sea Shield puts a damper on trying to put WMD on missiles.
A big part of nuclear proliferation would go away if you couldn't put
nukes on missiles. Homeland defense against imported WMD becomes more
manageable.
***
In the back of Ready One, in the galley above the coffee pot, mugs hung
on the wall, one for each of the eighteen pilots, the maintenance
officer, and the gunnery officer. Greg filled his cup with coffee. His
other choice was "bug juice," a version of Kool-Aid.
Kelly took their trays and stacked them.
"See the news -- what a mess --the UN plans to send thousands of new peacekeeping forces into Lebanon to stop
Islamic militants -- Jihad, Hezbollah, and Hamas -- from attacking
Israeli settlements across from Lebanon with rockets."
"The U.S. clashed
with the UN Security Council over the role of UN peacekeepers,"
Greg explained. "The U.S. warned Syria and Iran again that their
support for terrorists disrupts the Israeli-Palestinian peace process.
They threatened to preemptively strike them with Marine Expeditionary
Forces. To change the regime in Palestine, we had to first change the
regime in Iraq. That attracted Saddam's loyalists and all the young al
Qaeda Sunni fanatics from outside Iraq. We were up to our eyeballs with
crocodiles. Israel was left alone facing the militants and Bush's
Palestinian peace initiative failed. Lebanon becomes a second front
allowing us to kill two birds with one stone. We stop the Islamic
terrorists that hijacked the Palestinians and at the same time seal off
the porous borders with Syria and Iran that supply fresh al Qaeda."
"We can't win a war against
terrorism. Terror is a tactic like air power." Greg groped for an
analogy that would make his argument clear. "We can't enlist
coalition partners with opaque abstractions. We have to convince them
that Islamic radicals have distorted the Islamic belief system by
hijacking Islam and taking their liberty and freedoms hostage."
"Papa, what makes you so optimistic
to believe Egyptians and other Arab societies won't embrace bin Ladenism
or some other Islamic theocracy like Iran's Shiites?"
"Bin Ladenism is a
Sunni doomsday cult," Greg replied. "Like all great religions
or belief systems, it's periodically hijacked by radicals like the
Wahhabis."
"How did foreign policy
change?"
"Policies adopted
for deterrence during the Cold War no longer apply. Before September 11,
policies were based on dealing with a rational enemy. There's nothing
rational about suicide bombers."
"You're too
damned optimistic."
"Nah. We have a model for regime
replacement and rebuilding. It's called Afghanistan. We also have
another model for a large Muslim population practicing their faith and
striving successfully in a secular, democratic state."
Kelly looked baffled.
"Where? Not Iraq!"
"In America! Even the
Saudis understand that. Just watch any airliner take off from Dhahran or
Jeddah headed for the U.S. Once the plane's off the ground, off come
women's abayas and men's thobes and guttras. Out of bathrooms come
fashion models in high heels and businessmen in thousand-dollar Brooks
Brothers suits, wearing Gucci shoes.
"The battle within Islam's belief
system, as with the other great religions, is who has the right to use
his or her interpretation of Islam to justify the right of certain
people to govern. The Shiite mullahs in Iran and the Sunni imams in
Saudi Arabia have hijacked Islam. The battle within the Muslim world is
a battle for hearts and minds. So we have two kinds of battles going on
inside Islam; one is an intellectual one for the hearts and minds of the
Muslim world and the other is a transnational war by terrorist
ideologues against the Western world. The strategic threat to America is
bin Laden's anti-American message and al Qaeda's unifying
ideology."
Kelly clinched her fist and quietly
pounded the table. "Europeans bellyache about our unilateral
action. They want a coalition but they don't have anything to
contribute. They shrink from defense spending and, when push comes to
shove, expect us to do the heavy lifting. Then they demand the right to
sit at the security table and veto our policy actions."
Good. Kelly was
finally coming to grips with what she didn't like.
* * *
The general grimaced as he swallowed some of
the fiery alcohol from Shanxi and reflected on the consequences of what
had happened. Pretend to be a pig (play dumb) in order to eat the tiger.
It was Strategy Number Twenty-Seven of Sun Tzu's thirty-six strategies
of war. He closed his eyes in resignation. The strategy had not worked
this time. Indeed, there had been a serious miscalculation that had now
caused an undesirable consequence.
They had aroused
the tiger.
* * *
The screens were now blank. No more spots or
lines dancing across the grid like Pac-men, flashing and eliminating
each other. This wasn't a child's game. This was war in the twenty-first
century. When the spots disappeared, real people died.
When the planes were
safely recovered and ordnance stored at daylight, Captain Anderson would
declare a "steel beach" picnic and barbecue. They would cook
steak, chicken, hamburgers, and hotdogs on the flight deck. Golfers,
fishers, and bands would appear. The Air Department would lower one of
the aircraft elevators to the hangar deck, the ship would stop, and a
swim call would be issued. Crewmembers would get the opportunity to jump
the twenty-six feet from the elevator to the water. It wouldn't be
unusual to have 2,000 people literally jump ship.
Was the world a better place? Rogue
countries considering achieving political goals with the use of force
would study the outcome. They would conclude that the use of missiles
was no longer an option. Terrorists would still exist and be encouraged
by foolish nation-states. In the new world order the penalty bar had
been substantially raised.
Greg hurried from the bridge to the Deck
Handler's hatch and watched Kelly and Curly pick their way aft through
the dark hammering rain, wafts of jet exhaust, and noise. Eerie figures
of plane handlers armed with lighted wands hustled around moving planes
and weapons. When the pilots reached the island entrance, Kelly looked
up, obviously surprised to see her grandfather standing in front of her.