“Yes, sir.” Amanda took over the line of the conversation.
“In order to successfully carry this mission off, we would have to break down the entire Shanghai defense net. It would require a full Baghdad package, a whole series of coordinated suppression and diversion strikes. We would not only need to disable their defenses, but to confuse them as to what our true intent is until it’s too late.”
Admiral Tallman steepled his hands on the table and stared at his interlaced fingers as if they were the most important things in the world. He held that posture silently for almost a full minute before speaking again. “Captain Garrett, do you have any idea of the scale of escalation we are talking about here?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Amanda replied quietly. “And I’m very glad that I’m not going to be the one to have to make the final decision on this.”
“Me, too, Captain. Do you feel comfortable with staying away from your ship for a little while longer?”
“I have every confidence in my executive officer, sir.”
“Very good. I’d like Lieutenant Rendino here to keep on working with my intelligence people for a while. I want a few more proofs on that boomer being there in the estuary.
“As for you and Lieutenant Arkady, I’d like you to talk with my planning staff. You sound like you’ve done some thinking about this thing. I want to start assembling a formal mission outline. We’ll put a situation-and-response package together and kick it on up the line to CINCPAC. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll tell us all to go to hell.”
Tallman glanced over at his chief of staff. “Commander Walker, set it up.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The Admiral returned his gaze to Amanda Garrett. “This operation looks like your baby. Captain. What do we call it?”
“Stormdragon.”
Amanda smiled in response to Tallman’s raised eyebrow.
“I’ve been reading a lot of Chinese maritime lore,” she said. “Stormdragon is a beast out of classic Chinese mythology. It lives off the coast of China and gives birth to the typhoon. It’s considered to be the harbinger of all death and destruction from the sea.”
49
As Sam Hanson entered the Oval Office, he found Benton Childress leaning against one of the window frames, looking out across the White House lawn.
“Hello, Sam,” the president said without turning. “I presume you’ve seen the latest in from the China crisis.”
“The Stormdragon mission proposal? Yes, sir, I have.”
Hanson didn’t go to his usual chair; rather, his marine’s instincts held him at parade rest beside the presidential desk.
“You’re my national security adviser, Sam. Start advising.”
“No, sir. I can’t. Not on this one.”
Now Childress did turn to face Hanson. “What do you mean, Sam?”
“I mean that the mission proposal and operational outline appear very complete and concise to me, Mr. President. I have no concrete additions or observations to make. As for whether or not this mission should be executed … I do not feel it as being my place to influence you either way, sir. This is a call solely for the president.”
“So it is, Sam. But at least you can sit around and keep me company while I make it. Pull the ramrod out of your spine and take a seat.”
Hanson obeyed. Childress returned to the desk and sank into his own chair. A single folder bearing the diagonal red slash of a confidential-materials cover lay centered on the blotter in front of him. He elected to ignore it for a moment.
“Sam, have you ever thought about running for this office?”
“Can’t recall as anyone has ever asked me.” Childress smiled and removed his glasses. “Well, if the topic ever comes up, you’re going to have one critical decision to make. Whether you are going to be a man damned for doing, or not doing.”
Drawing a handkerchief from his suit pocket, the president slowly began to polish the lenses. “You’re going to be damned no matter what, but you do get to pick the flavor of the damning.”
“I guess that’s something.”
“But not much,” Childress replied, redonning the glasses.
“If I choose to do nothing about this Stormdragon affair, I could be leaving the door open for humanity’s first nuclear war. Millions of people will die. A large section of the planet will be ravaged. The aftereffects will haunt us for centuries.
“On the other hand, if I authorize this strike, I could precipitate the same chain of events that I’m trying to prevent. Either way, this nation will be held responsible, as will I.”
Hanson had no reply for that, and silence dominated the room for a long minute. The president drew a silver pen from a desktop holder and rolled it between his fingers. Then, abruptly, he slammed it down.
“This wasn’t in the god damned job description!” Childress said savagely. “I gave my oath of office to the people of the United States, not to the people of China. They didn’t elect me! When did they become my responsibility!”
Sam Hanson settled a little deeper into his chair and met Childress’s eye.
“Sir, a little while ago, you wondered if anyone had ever asked me about running for president. If anyone ever did, I’d tell them to go directly to hell. I wouldn’t have your job for all the money they could print.”
A brief, low chuckle escaped from the president’s throat.
“Thanks a lot, Sam.”
Childress flipped open the cover of the folder. Reclaiming his pen, he signed the strike authorization with a single, swift scrawl of his name.
“Inform the Speaker of the House that I would like an immediate meeting with a senior congressional delegation. Then you may inform the Joint Chiefs that Stormdragon is a go.”
“Very good, Mr. President.”
“If I’m going to hell, Sam, it’s not going to be for sitting on my ass.”
50
The word came down — “Initiate Stormdragon” — and the labor began across an arc of time and space that stretched from the shores of Asia to the corridors of the Pentagon. Meat had to be put on the bare bones of the mission outline. Intelligence had to be collected and collated: satellite, aircraft, seaborne, surface, Elint, Sigint, Imagint, Humint … “Goddamn it! Will you please inquire of those paranoid sons of bitches over at Langley that if the Joint Chiefs of Staff aren’t authorized to have access to that data, who is?”
Targeting lists had to be assessed, proposed, rejected, and assessed again … “Okay, gentlemen. We’ve got six major transformer stations here in the Shanghai regional power grid. Which ones do we have to kill to pull the plug on the entire east side?”
Layer upon layer of strategic, operational, and tactical planning intermeshed into a single, composite whole. Scores of flight paths for cruise missiles and aircraft alike had to be planned, plotted, and timed to the second … “This is no good, Commander. You can’t bring that Tomahawk stream in over that high-density residential district. You know the mission parameters. Minimize collateral risk to all civilian areas. Replot it, expedite!”
Weather, fuel loads, weaponry … “Do we go with the laser-guided or do we load the GPUs? Desperate Jesus, Lieutenant! We got to start uploading ordnance in another forty-five minutes!”
Plan the perfect mission. Then plan for the mission that was not so perfect. What would happen if a carrier catapult failed with only half the strike in the air? What would happen if the Communists had a BARCAP up? What would happen if the first plane back crashed and fouled the deck? What would happen if … Stormdragon’s planners struggled mightily to cover every possible eventuality, to cover every possible untoward event that could affect the outcome of the mission.