The battle group, centered around the USS Jefferson, loitered east of the Spratly Islands, slowly patrolling east and west in a corridor that ran from Mischief Reef to twelve miles off the coast of Vietnam. For the last ten days, a lone E-2C Hawkeye had been stationed midway between the Vincennes and the Jefferson, only sporadically accompanied by a U.S. fighter. The American fighter patrols focused exclusively on the areas to the south, staying always outside of weapon release range of the Spratly Islands. It was a strange tactical dispersion, and the positioning of the fighters made little sense to either the Chinese or the Vietnamese.
“The only explanation,” Bien said thoughtfully, “is that they are attempting to avoid the appearance of interest in the Spratly Islands. By staying out of weapons range, they believe that they can convince the rest of the world that they are not behind these horrible attacks on the islands.” He carefully avoided referring to the islands as Chinese. That issue would be resolved later, although Vietnam had little chance of opposing China without outside assistance.
“A futile gesture.” Mein Low shrugged. “After all, you yourself have investigated the facts behind the attacks. It was not China, and it certainly was not Vietnam. Who else could be responsible?”
And now comes the most delicate part of this strange dance between our countries, Bien thought. How am I to convince you that we believe your story, when past experience would persuade us to believe the opposite? If you told me the sun had risen this morning, I would be forced to go check for myself before I believed you!
“As you say — who else could be responsible?” Bien murmured. “Perhaps the stealth technology we have heard about, or a submarine-launched Tomahawk? Or even their special operations forces? The possibilities are too many to fully explore.”
The Chinese commander leaned back in his seat, apparently satisfied, Bien noted.
“So far, they have limited their attacks to our outposts,” he said, apparently broaching a new topic. “However, should your negotiations for normalization of international relations and trade concessions falter, do you truly believe that they would abstain from attacking your forces as well? Let us be frank with one another — while neither of us is willing to acknowledge the other’s claim to this territory, we are both certain that the Americans have no justifiable interest here. Correct?”
“Of course,” Bien said.
“Then it is to the advantage of both to ensure that the Americans leave this region. Permanently.”
“It took us twenty years of war to convince them to go home last time,” Bien said softly. “Can we dare hope that it would be easier now?”
The Chinese commander nodded vigorously. “It should be, thanks to that very same tragedy. That is the other reason that cooperation between our countries is so appropriate at this time. It is Vietnam’s sacrifices that will make this plan work. The result of your prior disagreement with the Americans is that they have no tolerance for loss of life. It must be very comforting to your people that your losses will finally be revenged.”
“And the plan?” Bien pressed.
“At the right time, my friend. At the right time. Now,” the Chinese commander continued, rubbing his hands together briskly, “I believe you mentioned inspecting the airfield this afternoon? What better time than now?”
“Good evening, Admiral,” Pamela said. She was proud of her voice — calm and professional, despite the rage of emotions flooding her.
“And to you, Miss Drake,” he answered gravely. His voice was scratchy, rubbed raw by too many cups of bitter black midwatch coffee and too little sleep.
How long can he keep this up? It’s been a week, and there’s no sign that the Chinese are any closer to doing anything different! Every face I see looks like death warmed over. If these people don’t get some sleep soon, it’s not going to matter what happens on some damned rock in the middle of the South China Sea. Not that I care about him in particular, she added hastily to herself.
They’d come full circle in their relationship. From friends to lovers, and then engaged — and now back to merely friends. If it was possible. She wasn’t entirely sure it was going to be.
And that pilot — what was her name? Tomboy, she’d heard the others call her. From the way Tombstone looked at her, the younger woman was more than just another aviator in his carrier group. She wondered if anyone else had noticed the sparks that flew between their admiral and the pilot. It was more than just the close bond that grows up between men and women facing mortal danger together.
Not that Stoney would do anything about it, of that she was certain. As long as Tomboy was under his command, she had no permanent claim on his attention. To get involved with a woman on his ship — no, the meticulously proper Rear Admiral Tombstone Magruder would never commit that sin.
She listened to the morning briefing half-attentively. Too little had changed to warrant more than a cursory discussion. Chinese fighters still challenged the edges of the carrier’s air envelope, still in small groups and still in unthreatening mission profiles. Despite the apparent lack of progress, Commander Lab Rat — Busby, she corrected herself — still looked as optimistic and determined as ever. Pamela forced herself to start paying attention as the intelligence officer stood to give his portion of the morning brief.
“Situation unchanged, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. An incongruously cheerful smile spread across his face. “No news is good news, in this case!”
“How much longer?” CAG grumbled. “I’ve got people walking around asleep on their feet! We can’t keep this many alert aircraft manned and the flight deck in this state of readiness forever.”
Busby looked thoughtful. “I know it’s a problem, CAG, but it shouldn’t be too much longer. We have some reasons to believe that something may happen soon.”
“You keep saying that!” Ops burst out. “How about some specifics, Commander?”
Commander Busby drew himself up to his full height and stood his ground. “There are some things I can’t brief, sir. No disrespect intended.”
“Typical intelligence,” Ops snapped. “Too late to do any good. And if you’ve got something useful for us, it’s too classified for the people that need it most to see!”
“Enough,” Tombstone said. “Ops, CAG — I appreciate the difficulty of your positions. I see the same faces you do, and I know what you’re up against. In this situation, however, Commander Busby has my full support. And my utmost confidence. That good enough for you?”
Ops grunted and CAG nodded. Neither one, Pamela noted, appeared to be reassured by their admiral’s statement.
“End of discussion,” Tombstone added. “Commander, I believe that is the end of the brief as well.”
The intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and began rolling up his charts and overlays. Pamela wondered what arcane bit of intelligence information the two of them shared — and why it was secret from the rest of the staff.
“Well, I don’t see how we could possibly work you into her schedule until next Tuesday. It’s just-“
Ambassador Wexler paused at the coffeepot and watched her aide. His normally congenial expression had just faded into something that resembled the look of a shell-shocked POW. She stirred in some creamer, wondering what besides a declaration of war could so disturb her normally unflappable staffer.