At least the carrier hadn’t been hit. Still, he had to find a way to get that canal cleared as Vinson was already steaming at flank speed toward the Taiwan Strait.
Reading glasses in hand, he stood at the head of the conference table in the Situation Room. In front of him sat the usual suspects in their usual seats. They were creatures of habit. The brass sat to the left of him and the civilians to the right. The sight reminded him of the band Stealers Wheel’s pop hit “Stuck in the Middle with You,” which had been popular when he flew Thuds in Vietnam. Back then, the powers that be had thrown him into the middle of a no-win war, and now he was the one doing precisely that to his troops, placing them in unwinnable situations.
“Gentlemen,” he finally said, “I’m starting to feel like a wounded elephant in the middle of a pack of hungry lions. The terrorists smell blood, and they sense the absolute fear that’s permeating our country. We, as a nation, have to be prepared to go on the offense and take the fight to them.”
He picked up his glasses and then checked himself, waiting to see who would speak first.
“President Macklin,” Hartwell Prost said right away. “We’ve seen suicide attacks since the early eighties, but this time around they’ve incorporated a strategic component to them. This isn’t just some guy in a vest blowing up a restaurant or beheading someone on YouTube, or even flying a plane into a building. They’ve stepped up their game to attack our very ability to counterattack by disabling our carriers, plus none of the usual suspects has claimed responsibility, making it harder to know where to counterattack. We’re dealing with a new kind of very focused, covert, and strategic terrorism, and that takes this to another level. We can’t afford to follow the traditional playbook anymore. They’ve changed their rules and that means we have to change ours.”
An awkward silence settled over the room.
“What are you suggesting?” the president asked.
The DNI sat forward and put his arms on the table, settling in before speaking. “We know which countries are either sponsoring terrorism or harboring terrorists. Our actions to date have been surgical strikes aimed at terrorist training camps and the like. But we’ve remained clear of damaging any nation’s infrastructure or military installations, aside from the isolated strike at Zahedan. You put the world on notice during your address to the nation, Mr. President. You said there would be no exceptions. It’s time we made good on that promise.”
Another moment of silence followed.
Sitting forward, a look of determination on his face, General Les Chalmers spoke. “I totally agree. Mr. Prost is absolutely correct. It’s past time to go on offense and stop this ongoing craziness. We’re being completely reactive and are losing this war.”
At this, Secretary of State Brad Austin sat forward. “Mr. President, gentlemen, I also agree that we are being completely reactive. But we face the same challenges that Bush faced after nine-eleven: a lack of targets. Sure, we can hit Iran with all we have, but that may not stop these attacks. So maybe we hit someone else. The question we have to answer is ‘How far are we willing to go?’ This can quickly turn into a game of Whac-A-Mole that we can’t win. In many ways, it already has.”
Clearly troubled and angry, Macklin leaned back in his chair for a few moments. “I know you’re right,” he said with a heavy sigh, then added, “but I also know we can’t do nothing. Perhaps we can at least make the damn mole afraid to stick his head out long enough to get our carriers repaired and our defenses strengthened.”
The president turned to Defense Secretary Adair. “Pete, I think we need to go to DEFCON Two.”
The blood drained from the secretary of defense’s face.
Macklin then looked at Chalmers and added, “Les, use all the assets you need.” He paused. “I want our enemies to carefully know that all potential consequences are on the table.
“Yes, sir,” Chalmers replied, a look of grim determination on his face. The president of the United States had just directed the armed forces to go to their second-highest state of readiness, a state not seen since the beginning of the Gulf War in 1991, as well as the potential use of nuclear weapons, something no president had done since the sixties.
“Hart,” the president continued, “I want you to coordinate with British and Israeli intelligence. See if they can’t get a handle on the origins of these terrorists. If they have Iranian or Saudi backing, I want to know. Also, let’s get the secretary of energy on the phone. I want an immediate status report on the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. With the Suez Canal blocked and the potential that we may need to hit one or more of the oil producers in the Middle East, we are in real danger of a full-blown oil shortage.”
Just then, an aide whispered something to Secretary of State Brad Austin, who looked at Macklin.
“Brad?”
“Time for our call with the Egyptian president.”
“Right,” he said, standing, which prompted everyone to stand. “Need to go see about getting a canal cleared.”
Prost caught up to them in the hallway on the way to the elevator.
“Hart?” he said, regarding his DNI over the rim of his glasses. “Something you wish to add?”
“Yes, sir. As unfortunate as this situation is, I see it as a huge opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lincoln’s trapped, sir, and if I were the terrorist mastermind behind these attacks, I would be trying to figure out a way to take another shot before the canal is cleared.”
Slowly Macklin removed his reading glasses, folded them, and asked, “You’re telling me you want to use a six-billion-dollar carrier as… bait?”
Prost nodded.
Capt. Yuri Sergeyev had waited almost two days before getting under way in the midnight hour. He had held out as long as he felt prudent, while still leaving in time to make his rendezvous with a supply ship in the South China Sea in two days. K-43 would take on fuel, fresh food, and six torpedoes to replenish the ones fired at Stennis.
They had spent the time on the bottom of the pier ignorant of what was happening on the surface. Leonod Popov had listened to the passive sonar and reported multiple ships and small craft moving on the surface, but the cacophony of sounds in the water made it impossible to know more. He’d imagined helicopters dropping their arrays of sonar buoys into the water, looking for K-43, but Sergeyev knew that all of the activity on the surface would hamper any attempt to detect them.
“Ahead slow,” Sergeyev said in a quiet voice.
“Ahead slow, Cap’n,” Anatoli Zhdanov replied.
Nearing open water, Sergeyev wanted to see what might be lurking on the surface. “Come to periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye.”
Sergeyev waited until the submarine stabilized at a depth of forty feet before he said, “All stop.”
“All stop, aye.”
Allowing the submarine to slow before raising the periscope minimized the risk of a “feather,” the small wake that would be easy to detect on the surface.
Sergeyev made a quick visual sweep and then abruptly stopped when he found himself looking at the stern of a Singaporean cutter a thousand feet ahead. “Down scope,” he ordered with a trace of concern in his voice before mumbling, “a cutter is in the middle of the channel. Anchor lines to port and starboard.”