Air Force One, with the president on board, was slicing across the Atlantic on its way back from the G7 summit, its last round of meetings having been curtailed due to the burgeoning crisis. Touchdown at Andrews was scheduled for 16:37 local time, more than an hour after Chowdhury had sworn to his mother that he’d be home to facilitate his daughter’s pickup with his ex-wife. Taking a reprieve from one crisis, he stepped outside the Situation Room and turned on his cell phone to deal with another.
“Sandeep, I refuse to stand in the same room as that woman,” answered his mother as soon as Chowdhury had explained. He pleaded for her help. When she asked for the details of what was holding him up he couldn’t say, recalling Lin Bao’s familiarity with his texts. His mother continued to protest. In the end, however, Chowdhury insisted on remaining at work, adding, lamely, that it was “a matter of national security.”
He hung up the phone and returned to the Situation Room. Hendrickson and his two aides sat on one side of the conference table, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Lin Bao had called, delivering news that had yet to filter from the George H. W. Bush, through Fifth Fleet Headquarters in Bahrain, up to Central Command, and then to the White House: the Iranian Revolutionary Guards had taken control of an F-35 transiting their airspace, hacking into its onboard computer to bring it down.
“Where’s the plane now?” Chowdhury barked at Hendrickson.
“In Bandar Abbas,” he said vacantly.
“And the pilot?”
“Sitting on the tarmac brandishing a pistol.”
“Is he safe?”
“He’s brandishing a pistol,” said Hendrickson. But then he gave Chowdhury’s question greater thought. The pilot was safe, insomuch as to kill him would be a further and significant provocation, one it seemed the Iranians and their Chinese collaborators weren’t ready to make, at least not yet. What Lin Bao wanted was simple: a swap. The John Paul Jones had stumbled upon something of value to the Chinese — the Wén Rui, or more specifically the technology installed on it — and they wanted that technology back. They would be willing to arrange a swap through their Iranian allies, the F-35 for the Wén Rui.
Before Chowdhury could reach any conclusions, Lin Bao was again on the line. “Have you considered our offer?” Chowdhury thought of his own larger questions. Ever since the mid-2020s, when Iran had signed onto the Chinese “Belt and Road” global development initiative to prevent financial collapse after the coronavirus pandemic, they had helped project Chinese economic and military interests; but what was the scope of this seemingly new Sino-Iranian alliance? And who else was a party to it? Chowdhury didn’t have the authority to trade an F-35 for what would seem to be a Chinese spy ship. The president herself would decide whether such a swap was in the offing. Chowdhury explained the limitations of his own authority to Lin Bao, and added that his superiors would soon return. Lin Bao seemed unimpressed.
“While you’re holding the Wén Rui we are forced to interpret any stalling as an act of aggression, for we can only assume you are stalling so as to exploit the technology you’ve seized illegally. If the Wén Rui isn’t turned over to us within the hour, we and our allies will have no other choice but to take action.”
Then the line went silent.
What that action was, and who those allies were, Lin Bao didn’t say.
Nothing could be done within an hour. The president had already indicated that she wouldn’t be moved by ultimatums. She had summoned the Chinese ambassador to meet that evening and not before, which according to Lin Bao would be too late. While they assessed their options, Hendrickson explained gravely to Chowdhury that the only naval force they had within an hour’s range of any other Chinese ships was the Michelle Obama, an attack submarine that had been trailing a Chinese merchant marine convoy up and around the Arctic deltas that had once been the polar ice caps. The Obama was tracking two Russian submarines, which had closed to within ten miles off the stern of the merchant convoy. While Chowdhury considered this development, puzzling over the appearance of the Russians, he was reminded of a story about Lincoln.
“It was during the darkest days of the Civil War,” Chowdhury began, ostensibly speaking to Hendrickson, but really speaking to himself. “The Union had sustained a series of defeats against the Confederates. A visitor from Kentucky was leaving the White House and asked Lincoln what cheering news he could take home. By way of reply, Lincoln told him a story about a chess expert who had never met his match until he tried his luck against a machine called the ‘automaton chess player’ and was beaten three times running. Astonished, the defeated expert stood from his chair and walked slowly around and around this amazing new piece of technology, examining it minutely as he went, trying to understand how it worked. At last he stopped and leveled an accusing finger in its direction. ‘There’s a man in there!’ he cried. Then Lincoln told his visitor to take heart. No matter how bad things looked there was always a man in the machine.”
The phone rang again.
It was Lin Bao.
Wedge was furious. He couldn’t help but feel betrayed as he sat on the taxiway at Bandar Abbas. Of course, he hadn’t chosen this taxiway, or where to land, or even to open his canopy and shut off his engine. His plane had betrayed him so completely that the overriding emotion he felt was shame. On his descent he had managed to destroy the black box behind his head by using his pistol as a hammer. He had also destroyed the encrypted communications on board, as well as the most sensitive avionics, which controlled his suite of weapons. Like a crazed, captive animal, he’d been banging away at the inside of his cockpit ever since losing control.
He continued his work once he landed.
As soon as his cockpit was open, he’d stood up in it and fired his pistol into the controls. The gesture filled him with a surprising upsurge of emotion, as though he were a cavalryman putting a bullet through the brain of a once-faithful mount. The few dozen Revolutionary Guards dispersed around the airfield struggled to understand the commotion. For the first several minutes, they chose to keep their distance, not out of fear of him, but out of fear that he might force a misstep into what, up to this point, had been their well-orchestrated plan. However, the more Wedge destroyed — tearing at loose wiring, stamping with the heel of his boot, and brandishing his pistol in the direction of the guardsmen when he felt them approaching too closely — the more he forced their hand. If he completely destroyed the sensitive items in his F-35, the aircraft would be of no use as a bargaining chip.
The on-scene commander, a brigadier general, understood what Wedge was doing, having spent his entire adult life facing off, either directly or indirectly, with the Americans. The brigadier slowly tightened the cordon around Wedge’s aircraft. Wedge, who could feel the Iranians closing in, continued to flash his pistol at them. But he could tell that each time he pulled it out, the guardsmen on the cordon became increasingly unconvinced that he’d actually use it. And he wouldn’t have used it, even if it’d had any ammunition left, which it didn’t. Wedge had already plugged the last round into the avionics.
The brigadier, who was missing the pinky and ring finger of his right hand, was now waving at Wedge, standing in the seat of his jeep, as the other jeeps and armored vehicles on the cordon grew closer. The brigadier’s English was as mangled as his three-fingered hand, but Wedge could make out what he was saying, which was something to the effect of, “Surrender and no harm will come to you.”