Chang Yu-shan suddenly found his voice. “It is not in your best interests to threaten us, to treat us with disrespect. The Chinese government controls over a trillion dollars in US debt, and our military is the largest in the world.”
“That’s true,” Austin replied, clearly angry, “but the US has nearly as much invested in China, and if US manufacturers were to start pulling out, China’s economy would collapse. As for your military, you have one aircraft carrier — and it’s not even combat-ready — an insufficient transport system, and an army that hasn’t been in combat since the seventies. The US, on the other hand, has eleven aircraft carriers, the majority of which are still capable of being deployed, and has been in constant combat since nine-eleven. Your leaders had best not be thinking your military can defeat ours, because short of a nuclear war — which we will also win — China can barely touch us.
“So, listen carefully,” Austin said in a steely voice. “We did not initiate this provocation. China did. I recommend you contact Beijing and make our position very clear.”
Austin rose from his seat. “This is an extremely serious matter. I trust you will give it your immediate attention.”
After Austin left, Yu-shan asked that a secure phone call be placed to China. But rather than calling President Jiechi’s office, he contacted the man who’d gotten him this post: General Deng Xiangsui.
Sitting in the rear of the sedan that would drive him back to the White House, Austin hit the speed dial on his encrypted phone.
“Brad, how did it go?” President Macklin asked.
“Message delivered, sir. And in the appropriate wording,” he replied, before providing his commander in chief with a full briefing, including the photos that the ambassador had hanging from his wall.
“Brad, is it just me, or does it also feel to you that we’re playing their game, just like we did back then with all of those stupid fucking restrictions?”
“You’re reading my mind, sir. We can’t win this war on terror by following the damn playbook. I really think it’s time we turn off our IFFs… and go downtown.”
Followed by Keith Okimoto and his team of Secret Service agents, President Cord Macklin and Hartwell Prost strolled around the South Lawn at midnight, under a yellow quarter moon, smoking cigars.
The DNI paused when the phone in his coat pocket dinged twice. Pulling it out, he stared at it for several seconds.
“Hart?”
But Prost seemed in a trance reading the message, then mumbled, “Wow.”
“Hart!”
Turning to face his commander in chief, Prost said, “Just got confirmation via my people in the South Pacific that the same ghost submarine that damaged Stennis and sunk North Dakota also sunk Morgenthau.”
“The same sub?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We know this how?”
“Apparently when the sub made the emergency dive from the side of the freighter, a crew member was inadvertently left on the cargo ship.”
“And how did our folks figure this out so quickly? It’s been, like, just a few hours since we intercepted it?” Macklin asked, remembering an earlier brief from the chief of naval operations, Admiral Denny Blevins.
Prost shook his head. “That’s, ah… CIA business, sir. You don’t want to know the details.”
“Oh.”
“The sub crew is Russian, and the commander is a former Soviet submarine captain by the name of Yuri Sergeyev. My people are pulling together a dossier on the man. According to intelligence extracted independently from the stranded crew member and also from the freighter’s captain, also a former Soviet naval officer, named Boris Orlov, the sub is headed for the Taiwan Strait to hunt Vinson as its primary target or Roosevelt as its secondary.”
Macklin pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache mounting.
“There’s something else, sir,” he added. “According to this Orlov, both he and Sergeyev were hired by our missing Saudi prince.”
“Whom we let get away.”
Prost frowned.
“Hart,” Macklin added. “Needless to say, we can’t afford to lose another carrier. And given Chalmers’s last briefing on the noise China’s making in the region, if Vinson is out of the picture, I think the PLA will make a move on Taiwan.”
“Admiral Blevins is already aware, sir,” Prost said, pointing at his phone. “And so is the crew of Vinson and its escorts — as is the Roosevelt carrier group. They’re on the lookout with all of their ASW assets. And we have also ordered Zumwalt to the strait for insurance.
“Also, the attack submarine Missouri is out there. Her skipper is the one who picked up the ghost sub a couple of times on his sonar. He fought tooth and nail with COMSUBPAC to remain in the area to hunt it, rather than escort Stennis to Honolulu.”
Macklin blew smoke out, feeling damn glad the military still had independent thinkers.
At the president’s silence, Prost added, “And since Missouri seems to be the only boat who can pick up the scent of this ghost sub, we’ve also dispatched it to the strait to keep hunting for it.”
Macklin stared at the glowing end of his cigar and frowned. “Hart, I want to go back to Ford for a moment. What’s the status of the NCIS investigation?”
“They identified the spy,” he said with some trepidation. “However, they… ah, missed her when they went to arrest her.”
“Missed her?”
Prost explained about the sailor, the girlfriend with the phony name, and the dragnet the NCIS and other law enforcement officials had thrown over the Newport News area, looking for the missing yellow Mustang convertible.
“A patrol car from the Newport News Police Department, working off the NCIS BOLO, located the Mustang at a home overlooking the bay. They cordoned off the neighborhood and executed a no-knock warrant.”
With a shake of his head, Prost carried on. “Her clothes were still in the closet and to add insult to injury, a still-warm cup of coffee was sitting on the kitchen table. But she was gone.”
Macklin exhaled heavily as he sat down on a nearby bench. “If the Mustang was still in the driveway, and the neighborhood had been surrounded, how did she disappear?”
Prost sat down on a facing bench and eyed his commander in chief. “They also found a police radio scanner. She heard the chatter and ran.”
“We just can’t catch a break, can we?” the president said angrily, chewing on his cigar instead of smoking it.
“Not all hope is lost, sir. The fact that the spy ran away isn’t necessarily all bad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of our space-based assets picked up another satellite phone message four hours ago, originating from the Virginia Beach area to a receiver about a hundred and twenty miles from our coast. We think our runaway spy sent it before going dark.”
“Oh,” Macklin said. “What does it say?”
“The content of the message isn’t that important. It says that her cover’s blown and she’s going underground. But we can now concentrate our assets on that area, from Coast Guard cutters and patrol boats to drones.”
“Anything you need,” Macklin said. “Just catch the bastard before he gets any closer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how’s your special team?”
“Still searching for the elusive prince. We now have tabs on all of his usual hideouts, from yachts and jets to mansions and villas. Now that we have a name, it’s just a matter of time.”