Sea of Shadows (For fans of Tom Clancy and Dale Brown) Page 25

4:42 PM EDT

  The laminated hospital ID badge hanging from the breast pocket of his lab coat identified him as Dr. Richard Warren. He looked like any one of the fifty young interns and residents who frequented the wards on the third floor of Columbia Memorial. He wore the usual stethoscope draped around his neck, and his face had the slightly harried appearance that seemed to mark most doctors young enough to still be scrambling for a foothold in the world of HMO-driven medicine. But his name was not Richard Warren, and he was not a doctor. And the two men who walked behind him were not hospital orderlies, despite their green scrubs and hospital IDs.

  To the casual eye, all three men blended in perfectly with their surroundings. A careful observer might have noticed that the trio moved with the animal grace of athletes, or that their eyes swept the hallway with the mechanical precision of radar scanners. But—thanks to the closure of DC General, the patient load at Columbia Memorial was nearly forty percent over rated capacity, and the third-floor staff had its hands full just staying on top of emergencies.

  The man who was not Dr. Warren stopped at the nurse’s station and flipped through the rack of stainless steel clipboards until he found the chart for Room 31, Bed 4. The floor nurse glanced up from her own paperwork just long enough to register his lab coat and ID. He nodded without speaking, and she returned to her work.

  The patient’s name was Isma’il Hamid. His diagnosis was listed as diffuse peritonitis and inflammatory bowel obstruction, secondary to perforated appendicitis. He was on a regimen of high-dose antibiotics and, according to his chart, was responding well to treatment.

  The counterfeit doctor closed the chart and returned it to the rack. His pair of bogus orderlies followed him down the hall toward Room 31.

  * * *

  About twenty minutes later, the orderly delivering dinner to Room 31 discovered that Bed 4 was empty. Isma’il Hamid was gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  U.S. Department of State

  Executive Summary on Siraj

  Section VII Impact of Sanctions

  [Synopsis and Recommendation(s)]

  1. Synopsis:

  A. In last week’s statement to the United Nations Security Council, Siraji President Abdul al-Rahiim accused the UN of playing politics with hunger. “My people are starving,” he said. “The sanctions against my country are squeezing the life out of my citizens. You sit in judgment over what you refer to as my excesses, and yet you ignore the fact that it is your resolution and your sanctions that condemn the Siraji people to slow death.”

  When reminded that food, medicine, and humanitarian supplies are exempted from standing UN sanctions, Abdul al-Rahiim had no comment.

  (See Appendix-B, Tab-C for a full transcript of President Abdul al-Rahiim’s remarks.) [Cross-index 737465616c7468626f6f6b732e636f6d]

  B. Even as Abdul al-Rahiim claims that his people are suffering, he persists in obstructing humanitarian supplies intended for the citizens of Siraj. Despite Abdul al-Rahiim’s protests, his regime continues to export food in exchange for hard currency. In many cases, the exported foodstuffs are diverted directly from humanitarian shipments. Less than a week ago, ships charged with enforcing the UN blockade against Siraj seized the container ship MV City of Light outbound from the Siraji port city of Zubayr. Among the cargo were 1,500 metric tons of rice and over 1,200 tons of powdered baby formula, baby bottles, and other nursing supplies. The seized materials were all earmarked for resale overseas, and all items could be traced back (by lot and batch numbers) to supplies delivered to Siraj in humanitarian shipments. Kuwaiti authorities continue to report seizures of supply trucks traveling overland out of Siraj. In most cases, the supplies in question can be traced directly back to shipments of humanitarian goods.

  C. Not since Saddam Hussein have we seen a Middle Eastern leader whose motives are so unambiguously mercenary. Abdul al-Rahiim has built twenty-one palaces for himself since the UN blockade against his country was imposed. He continues to use all resources at his disposal to rearm the Siraji military and to finance his opulent lifestyle. His priorities are clear, and they do not include the welfare of the Siraji people.

  2. Recommendation(s):

  A. It is overtly obvious that relaxing or lifting the sanctions against Siraj will bring no relief to the inhabitants of the country. Such a move will only offer an already dangerous man increased leverage for destabilizing this politically fragile region. State recommends no change in U.S. position regarding the standing UN sanctions against Siraj.

  AIR FORCE ONE FRIDAY; 18 MAY

  7:03 PM EDT

  President Chandler dropped the state department summary on the briefing table and settled into his plush, gray-leather swivel chair. Except for the seat belts and the obvious fact that ordinary office furniture was rarely bolted to the floor, the chair would have looked at home in any high-powered corporate boardroom.

  At its cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet, the huge Boeing 747 200B was slicing easily through the bright morning sky. So far, the flight had been free of turbulence. Even so, the president fastened his seat belt almost immediately after sitting down. He would have preferred to leave the seat belt off, but safety protocols dictated otherwise. There were people in the world who would attack the presidential jet if given the chance, and the pilots might be forced to take evasive maneuvers with little or no warning.

  As long as the captain of the aircraft kept the “Fasten Seat Belts” light turned off, anyone else on the plane was free to sit without buckling in. This was a minor source of irritation to Frank, but as one of the pilots had once pointed out, the president’s safety was a matter of immediate national security. The lives of the president’s staff and the press corps, as valuable as they were, could not be considered a national security issue.

  Of course, the president could have ignored the safety guidelines. Many presidents had. But there were too many people who spent their lives trying to protect him—too many whose jobs and training would require them to sacrifice their own lives in order to save his. He owed it to them to do what he could to protect himself. And that meant, among other things, fastening his seat belt even when he didn’t feel like it.

  He gave the belt an extra tug. It was a nice seat belt, as seat belts went. Like every one on the plane, the buckle was embossed with the presidential seal.

  Satisfied that he had done his tiny part to comply with the safety protocols, the president looked up at the small group of people on the opposite side of the briefing table.

  National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven sat directly across from him, flanked on the left by White House Chief of Staff Veronica Doyle, and on the right by Undersecretary of State Lawrence Mitchell.

  The president leaned forward and rested his arms on the briefing table. “Let’s start with China.”

  Brenthoven glanced at his notebook. “Both sides have stepped up their military air presence over the Taiwan Strait, sir. About three o’clock this morning local time, a pair of Taiwanese Mirage 2000s made simulated attack passes on three Chinese J-10s. Nobody actually launched, and none of the aircraft crossed the invisible line down the middle of the strait, but they traded lock-ons with their fire control radars and generally crowded the hell out of each other.”

  “Playing chicken?”

  “That’s all it is so far, Mr. President,” Brenthoven said. “But both sides are flying about three times as many sorties as usual, and they all appear to be carrying full wartime weapon load-outs. Having that much military hardware flying around creates a lot of opportunities for mistakes. This could turn into a shoot-out in about a split-second.”

  The president looked at Undersecretary Mitchell. “Larry, your boss has been back and forth between Taipei and Beijing about a dozen times recently. What does the water feel like over there? Is this whole thing just posturing? Or do you think they could be gearing up for a fight?”

  “The diplomatic rhetoric is hard-line as hell on both sides of the strait, Mr. President. China is
about a half-inch from threatening outright war if Taipei continues to move toward a formal referendum on independence. And the new Taiwanese government is openly referring to this latest Chinese ballistic missile test as nuclear blackmail. The Taiwanese army is repositioning land-based missile launchers and recalling reserve personnel for combat training. And China is mobilizing army units for their largest military exercise in ten years. The Chinese government says that the timing is a coincidence, but nobody’s buying that.”

  The president nodded. “What about the naval side of things?”

  “We’re keeping a close eye on the infrared picture for both navies,” Brenthoven said. “Our satellites can detect the heat plumes when their ships light off their engines. So far, the deployed force levels for both navies look pretty much status quo. No sign that anyone is rushing to put more ships to sea, but that could change pretty quickly.”

  “How quickly?” the president asked.

  “It would take either side about two hours to put a significant patrol force to sea,” Brenthoven said. “And about twelve hours to scramble most of their frigates, destroyers, and submarines. The newer gas turbine ships can get under way in about an hour, but the older steam-powered ships will require the better part of a day to light off their engineering plants, heat up their boilers, and get up a head of steam.”

  “How many ships are we talking about?”

  Brenthoven scanned his notes again. “China has what the CNO likes to call a ‘frigate navy,’ sir. Their order of battle includes about four hundred patrol boats, missile boats, and torpedo boats, but they have fewer than fifty major combatant ships. Taiwan is severely outnumbered with regards to patrol, missile, and torpedo boats but has roughly the same number of major combatants as China. However, from a qualitative standpoint, Taiwan’s ships are a lot more modern and generally a lot more mission capable. If it comes down to a gunfight, they’re pretty evenly matched. Taiwan has the edge in shore-launched anti-ship missiles, though. And that could well tip the balance in a major naval engagement. The Chinese military has concentrated more on ballistic and surface-to-surface missiles than on anti-ship missiles. That’s going to cost them if they try an amphibious invasion of Taiwan.”

  “An amphibious invasion?” Under Secretary Mitchell asked. “I didn’t think China had enough amphibious transport ships to do the job.”

  “They don’t, Mr. Secretary,” Brenthoven said. “According to our latest assessments, China can only move about one division at a time, and that’s not enough to seize and maintain a decent foothold if the Taiwanese resistance is even half as good as we think it would be.”

  Doyle nodded. “At least we don’t have to worry about the Chinese mounting an invasion.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” the national security advisor said.

  The president stared at him. “Make up your mind, Greg. The Chinese either have the amphibious capacity to mount an invasion, or they don’t. Which is it?”

  “They … might, sir,” Brenthoven said. “If you count strictly military assets, they certainly don’t. But a few years ago, the RAND Institute’s National Security Research Division published a report on the military aspects of a China-Taiwan confrontation. The report referred to something called a reverse Dunkirk tactic. The short of it is, China has a large number of commercial vessels that could be pressed into service as troop ferries, along with a few thousand smaller civilian craft, all of which could be used to transport small numbers of troops.”

  “Will it work?” the president asked.

  “About half of the military experts say no, and the other half say yes, sir. A lot of it depends on Taiwan’s anti-ship missiles, and on whether or not Taiwan can gain air superiority over the strait.”

  “So it still comes down to a coin toss,” Doyle said.

  Brenthoven nodded. “Pretty much. But if that coin gets tossed, a lot of people will die, no matter which way it falls.”

  The president exhaled through his teeth. “What can we do to prevent that coin from being tossed?”

  “We’re already doing it, sir. Our carrier-based F-18Es are flying regular sorties over the straits too. They’re sticking to the neutral zone between Taiwanese and Chinese airspace, but their presence is sending a pretty strong signal. The Chinese know that Taiwan will gain air superiority over the strait if we help them. China can’t launch an effective invasion if Taiwan owns the sky over the strait.”

  “Once again we’ve got our finger stuck in the dike,” the president said. “If we pull the carriers out, do you think the Chinese will actually try anything?”

  Brenthoven shrugged. “The Pentagon thinks an invasion scenario is possible but extremely unlikely.”

  “So we can’t rule it out,” the president said.

  “No, sir.”

  The president sighed. “Okay. We keep working the diplomatic angle, but we leave the carriers in place, for now at least.”

  He leaned back. “Germany.”

  Undersecretary Mitchell spoke up. “The diplomatic situation between Germany and Britain is deteriorating rapidly, Mr. President. Chancellor Shoernberg has publicly refused to apologize for the attack on HMS York and HMS Chatham. He claims that Britain defaulted on all existing treaties and agreements the second the Royal Navy tried to impede the passage of German submarines through international waters. He’s calling for a formal apology from Prime Minster Irons, and he’s demanding reparations for the aircraft that were destroyed and the pilots who were killed. He’s really pitching a fit over the German warship, the Sachsen.”

  “Reparations? I don’t see that happening,” Doyle said.

  “I don’t either,” Mitchell said. “The average British man on the street has blood in his eye right now. They were already mad as hell over the attack on their embassy. They’re ready to hurt somebody, and the shooting match with the Germans has just given them a target for all of that anger. Prime Minister Irons is addressing Parliament this afternoon. The grapevine says she’s going to ask for suspension of diplomatic ties with Germany.”

  The president grimaced. “Not good. When countries stop talking …”

  “They have a tendency to start shooting,” the national security advisor finished. “Sad, but true, Mr. President. And from the looks of things, both sides are gearing up for it. Military bases on both sides of the English Channel have been ordered to increased states of readiness, and air activity for both countries has picked up by about fifty percent.”

  “Is the naval operating tempo increasing as well?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Brenthoven said. “But that’s probably coming.”

  “What’s the latest on the submarines?”

  “No word on their current location, sir. Fifth Fleet has assigned four ships to intercept them south of the Strait of Hormuz. I have to tell you, Mr. President, it’s going to take a lot of luck to pull this off.”

  “Unfortunately,” Doyle said, “luck has been in rather short supply around here lately.”

  The president nodded. “Right now, we’re looking at about eighteen different ways the world could go to shit.”

  Undersecretary Mitchell smiled weakly. “Well, at least it can’t get any worse.”

  CHAPTER 33

  USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

  SOUTHERN STRAITS OF HORMUZ

  FRIDAY; 18 MAY

  2200 hours (10:00 PM)

  TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’

  Chief McPherson ran her fingers down the back of one of the Mark-54 torpedoes. She’d been chasing submarines for nineteen and a half years, first as an Ocean Systems Technician Analyst, then as a Sonar Technician, but she had never fired a torpedo.

  The weapon’s anodized metal skin was smooth and cold, perhaps as cold as the bottom of the sea. As cold as the torn, lifeless bodies of the German Sailors would be.

  First would come the fire, the shaped charge blasting through the steel hull, burning everything its white molten plasma jet passed close to. Then the sea would burst in through t
he broken hull, flooding compartments with the roar of a tidal wave, drowning the few men not already killed by the explosion, or crushing them to a pulp. And then the cold would come, the intense cold of the sea. Quenching the fierce heat of the man-made volcano, leaching the warmth from the still-twitching bodies of the crew, until everything—the twisted steel, the mangled flesh, the terrified screams of dying men—were all the same temperature as the frigid water of the ocean bottom.

  Behind her, the air drive motor started up with its characteristic hiss. The huge armored door to the torpedo magazine began to swing slowly open.

  Chief McPherson looked over her shoulder. Who would be coming into the magazine at this time of night?

  She popped to attention as soon as she recognized the figure standing in the widening gap of the doorway. “Good evening, sir.”

  Captain Bowie smiled and stepped into the magazine. “Carry on, Chief.”

  The chief relaxed and turned back toward the rack of stowed torpedoes. She laid her hand on the top weapon again. “I can see their faces, sir.”

  The captain waited a second before asking, “Whose faces?”

  “The faces of the German submarine crews.” She took a heavy breath and released it. “I’ve been chasing subs as long as I can remember, and I’ve always pictured them as these sort of dark, foreboding shapes, sneaking through the depths, hiding in the shadows.” She patted the torpedo twice with the palm of her hand. “I’ve been training to kill submarines, and talking about killing submarines, and planning the best ways to kill submarines since I was nineteen years old. And now that I’m going to actually do it, I can’t picture the submarines at all anymore. All I can see are the faces of those German Sailors. Faces of people I’ve never even met before … never will meet.”

  The captain nodded slowly. “What do these faces look like?”

  Chief McPherson’s eyes locked on the captain’s for a half-second and then flitted away. “Young, sir. Trained and confident. More than a little scared, but trying like hell to be brave. But young. Too goddamned young to die.” She looked up at her captain again. “They look like the faces of our crew, sir. And in a few hours, I’m going to have to kill them.”