‘But isn’t it true that they are being held hostage? That General Wu is holding them under threat of destruction, in order to keep us from interfering with his plans in the area?’
It was Norris again. Damn the man! Who’d authorized his presence at this conference? Mason regarded him coolly, determined to destroy his career. He’d get started as soon as this conference was over.
‘As I said, the situation is sensitive and ongoing, and I cannot comment on the specifics. But it is true that the Ford received extensive damage, as you all know, and is currently unable to be moved. And at the moment — obviously due to Chinese operations in the area — the Wu regime is not allowing our own military into its territorial waters to effect a retrieval. However, we are expecting this situation to change as soon as things with Taiwan settle down.’
‘And the MDT?’ a British reporter asked on behalf of the BBC.
‘It is still officially in operation,’ Mason answered carefully. ‘But obviously it was an agreement entered into by the communist party government, and it is unclear at present what — if any — of those treaties are now going to be honored.’
‘What has been President Abrams’ response to those requests for aid from other countries in the region?’ a reporter from CNN wanted to know.
‘Those countries are currently under no direct threat, and the reassurances they have sought have only been in reference to existing arrangements, which of course we will continue to honor.’ Despite his experience of fielding such questions, his ease and poise in front of the cameras, Mason felt the first trickle of nervous sweat slide down the back of his shirt. The reporters were getting a little too close to the bone, and Mason knew he was going to have to cut the conference short, before it was too late.
‘How about Japan?’ fired back Norris before Mason had had a chance to conclude the session. ‘We have an agreement with them, don’t we? And yet Wu’s taken the Senkaku Islands, which we recognize as Japanese territory. How does that validate our other agreements, how do those nations feel about our will to help them?’
Shit.
The key question had been asked, the one Mason had hoped — in fact, had demanded — wouldn’t be asked.
Mason worked hard to control his anger, not to raise his tense shoulders, grimace or frown. Instead, he forced his face into what he hoped was a natural, winning smile and looked at the gathered reporters, into their cameras, ready to be beamed into the homes of the American people.
‘The situation is complicated,’ he said earnestly, ‘as I’m sure you well know. Prime Minister Toshikatsu and the Japanese government have yet to decide how they are going to deal with the matter, and it is not up to our own government to be presumptuous, nor to pre-empt their own reaction. But we will, as always, stand by our allies.’ He looked around at all the people gathered in his garden, making sure they all saw the truth conveyed by his eyes, his absolute sincerity. ‘And now I’m afraid it’s time to finish up here, so I’d like to thank you all for coming, and wish you good day. Press packs will be available as you leave.’
He turned from his podium furious with that bastard Norris. He’d have the man run out of DC before tomorrow’s breakfast.
But he was also furious with himself. Why did he agree to host the press conference in the first place? Why hold it in his own garden?
He had hoped to present himself as a smooth, impressive, powerful man who could be relied upon to take charge, be honest, and make a connection with the American people.
In short, he had hoped to show himself to be a future contender for the top job.
Instead, he had been hounded into a position where he’d had to all but admit to America’s impotence, her inability to play any meaningful role in the situation which could soon be unrolling across the Asian continent.
His face, his garden, his home — they would be played on television, across the Internet, interminably, inextricably linked to the inaction of the United States.
He would be the scapegoat for the government’s weakness in the face of adversity, and as he stormed back inside his house, he saw his dreams of the presidency crumbling before his eyes.
Unless…
Unless, he reminded himself, he could catch Ellen Abrams red-handed in illegal activity, up to her neck in murky death squads and unauthorized covert operations.
He raced to the phone, his mind made up.
It was time to make a little visit to the Paradigm Group.
6
Cole had been in submarines before, but had never been truly comfortable in them. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but there was something entirely unnatural about living in a small tin-can under the crushing pressure of millions of tons of water. Conditions were cramped and there was no natural light — the whole set-up was as far from natural as it was possible to be.
But humans are an adaptable species, and Cole was among the most adaptable of them all; and therefore, despite his internal misgivings, he had once again become used to the sensation of living underwater, reminding himself that it was only for another few hours. The crew might well be trapped in here for weeks, or even months, on end. In reality, he had nothing to complain about.
He had nothing but admiration for Captain Sherman and the crew of the USS Texas. They were filled with the courage that came from professionalism and realistic training, and were more than willing to venture into the well-patrolled enemy waters of the PLA navy.
Cole remembered Sherman’s reaction to being given his orders.
‘So are we hitting Taiwan?’ he’d asked.
Cole had shaken his head. ‘No,’ he’d said, ‘we’re being a bit more proactive than that this time. I need you to take us to the Chinese mainland.’
Sherman’s face had lit up, an NFL manager being told he was getting a shot at the championships this year. ‘Where?’ he’d asked, his eyes bright.
‘I need you to infiltrate us into the Bohai Sea,’ Cole had said, and he’d seen Sherman making instant calculations. Cole knew it would mean piloting the Texas not only through the disputed waters of the East China Sea, but then up through the Chinese-controlled Yellow Sea and up into the protected waters of the Bohai Sea, surrounded on three sides by the Chinese coastline. Only a madman would make such an approach.
‘Risky,’ Sherman had said, ‘but I’m game. I’m not for sitting around. I want to take the fight to the enemy. You using the SDV to infil up the river from Bohai Bay?’
Cole had nodded. ‘Yeah, but the less you know about it the better.’
Sherman had nodded his head, whistling in appreciation. ‘Hell, if you guys are willing to do that, who am I to complain about getting you there? Passing through the Chinese navy’ll be a piece of cake compared to what you’ll face if we get you there.’
Cole had clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘When you get us there,’ he’d said to the submarine commander with a smile, and Sherman had smiled right back.
Cole had seen little of the captain since then; he didn’t expect Sherman to second-guess his own mission, and Cole had no wish to get in the man’s way while he was involved with his part in it. The CDC would be a hive of quiet activity — the sub rigged for silent operation, everyone’s nerves on end as she tried to slip through the Chinese defenses.
Cole was resigned to this part of the operation; they would either get there or they wouldn’t. And if they didn’t manage, it would mean that they had been identified; and if they were identified, they would be blown right out of the water. It was useless to worry about things that he had no control over, and so Cole used the journey to go over his plans with his Force One colleagues — again, and again, and again. You could never rehearse too much, never plan too much. Time spent in preparation was never wasted.