Prepared and staged in the greatest secrecy, all three assault forces headed southeast toward Africa, trying to stay as far as possible from South America. Their first goal was the coast of Antarctica, to crawl down-under past the Indian Ocean without Chinese or Chinese allied surveillance drones spotting them. Despite prior clandestine contacts and agreements, Levin of the CIA suggested the Australian Army might not boil out of their barracks to resist the PAA occupation force once the Americans landed, but the amphibious commanders expected Aussie cooperation.
2042, March 1-6. The Swing Under. The voyage past the western coast of Africa and south to Antarctica proved extraordinarily successful. The bitter crawl along the frozen continent cost two troopships sunk and thousands of cases of frostbite. Despite these setbacks, the American amphibious personnel believed they headed for the proverbial rendezvous with destiny. Routine Chinese patrol planes spotted the first ships of Task Force A on March 5. An emergency Ruling Council meeting resulted in Admiral Niu Ling’s carrier group being dispatched from the Coral Sea to the Tasman Sea between Australia and New Zealand.
This encounter turned out to be the oddest naval battle of the war.
Captain Darius Green was huge, a solid two-sixty in weight and six-nine in height. In 2040, he’d fought in a carbon fiber submergible in Lake Ontario against German Dominion forces. Now, he cruised the Tasman Sea in an Avenger VII-class submarine, part of Task Force A under Major General Puffer.
In the control center, Darius’s bulk filled the command chair. They submerged, having just launched a tiny surveillance drone. After reaching the desired depth, Darius would expel a small float radio with a wire trailing down to the submarine so they could receive data from the drone.
The only familiar face from Lake Ontario was the radio operator, Sulu Khan, a short man and a practicing Muslim like Darius. A small gold chain hung around Khan’s brown-skinned neck, the crescent moon on the end tucked out of sight under his uniform. In those days on Lake Ontario, it had just been the two of them. Now they had was an entire submarine of people. It still took some getting used to, as most of the crew was white.
Darius Green was a black man who had been born in the concrete, bankrupt jungle of Detroit. His father had run with the drug gangs, his grandfathers on both sides had been gangbangers. One died early in a turf war. The other died in prison. Darius Green had never met either of his grandfathers. He’d also never met his father, as the man had disappeared one night, presumed dead. His mother would have raised Darius if she’d been given the chance, but his uncle hadn’t let her. His dad’s brother had joined the Black Muslims of the Mustafa School. The man had known far too much about the ghettoes of Detroit to let his nephew grow up there.
So one day, Uncle Cyrus Green put Darius on his shoulder and marched outside to a waiting Harley. Darius held onto his uncle’s back the entire trip to Chicago. The gangs had been just as bad there, but Uncle Cyrus had moved into a Black Muslim compound. He’d been a foot soldier in the Mustafa School movement. From Darius’s youth on, Uncle Cyrus made sure he had discipline.
Darius practiced karate, read the Koran and studied math. Uncle Cyrus liberally used a leather belt on him to beat the lying and slothfulness out of Darius. Uncle Cyrus died several years later, never getting to see his nephew graduate from the compound’s high school.
His uncle’s death and the graduation had been many years ago. At this point in the war, Darius Green was thirty—four, a giant of a man with fierce convictions. He believed in the Mustafa School movement, and he believed in the betterment of the black man through his own hard work. He also knew that invaders had come to steal his country. In 2040, he’d worked with American white men to defend their united home. Now, they had him way out here to help other whites of another country.
Sometimes, it surprised Darius he commanded an Avenger VII submarine. He’d come to realize that America had to drive the Chinese back into their hole. The invaders used mass nuclear weapons. Black, white, whatever color, people had to unite against that.
Besides, Darius commanded the USS Grant. He liked it, and he’d found that his fellow officers were dedicated and skilled just like he was. He kept watching them, though, waiting for signs of disrespect. If anyone dared to dis him—but no, these sailors were honorable men, he’d found. Because of that, he gave respect in turn. That didn’t mean he agreed with what the white man had done to the black man, but he would join forces with them to defeat a worse aggressor.
Darius shifted in his seat. It had been a long voyage with too many icebergs to dodge. So far— “Oh, oh,” Sulu Khan said.
Everyone in the control center became quiet and still. The small radio operator in his white uniform tapped his screen.
“Report,” Darius said in his deep voice.
“Captain,” Khan said. “I’m not sure about this. It’s a long visual. I could turn on the radar—”
“No,” Darius said.
Khan bobbed his head in agreement. “I’m at extreme magnification. I can’t tell one hundred percent, but that sure looks like a carrier to me, which would make it Chinese.”
With a grunt, Darius heaved himself to his feet. He walked to Khan’s screen. How the little man thought he saw a carrier, Darius had no idea.
“That’s a dot,” Darius said.
It was a small black dot in the great blue ocean. Even lighter specks might have appeared beside the distant dot.
“You have to understand the range, Captain,” Khan explained. “This isn’t Lake Ontario.”
Darius scowled. He excelled at it, and no one aboard the Grant dared to stand in his way when he looked like that.
Khan bobbed his head again. “In my humble opinion, that’s a carrier and those are its escort vessels. Ah, look, there’s another carrier.”
“Where?” Darius asked, baffled.
Khan pointed to the upper left part of the screen.
Darius bent lower, squinting. He saw it now, a barely visible dot, but darker than the former specs. “You think it’s Chinese?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet one hundred percent. I’d bet my savings it’s Chinese. Should I use the drone’s radar in order to make sure?”
“The enemy would detect radar in an instant.”
“I agree with you there, Captain, sir,” Khan said.
“Take the drone down closer. We need visual confirmation of this.”
Khan twisted around to look up at Darius. “Begging your pardon, Captain…”
“What is it?” Darius snapped. He hated hints and innuendos.
“The drone is on a preplanned flight. It’s giving these aimed signals in our direction using tiny bursts, changing its frequency all the time in tandem with our receiver. If I broadcast a signal, rerouting the small craft…”
“Go on,” Darius said. “Finish your thought.”
“A Chinese electronics officer might pick up our signal. In other words, it increases their chance of detection.”
Darius didn’t look around at the others in the control center. That might indicate he didn’t know what to do or couldn’t decide. It had been different in Lake Ontario. Then it had just been Khan and him. Those days had been like playing one on one basketball. You didn’t have worry about shooting too much, because there was only you. Here, as in regular basketball, it was a team effort. His wrong choices could hurt other people.