The canopy blasted clear, and the acceleration hit him in the lower spine as the ejection seat rocketed him out of his plane, and into the night sky. His universe became a maelstrom of darkness and rushing wind.
And then the drogue deployed, pulling his chute open, and he was floating down toward the ocean under an unseen dome of taut nylon.
Monk wanted to see the impact. He needed to see it. He prayed that he would be facing the right way when it happened.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe it was just the wind. But his parachute turned slowly as he descended, and the enemy ship swung into view as the instant of collision occurred.
His wounded Hornet rammed into the superstructure of the Chinese aircraft carrier at several hundred knots. Kinetic energy, the plane’s fuel load, and the remaining munitions synergized into an expanding sphere of flame and destruction.
It might not have been the death blow. Perhaps the missile hits had already done that job. But to Monk, it felt like the killing shot. The sight had all the brutal majesty of the stone that felled Goliath, or a stake pounded through the heart of some mythical monster.
For the first time since Poker’s death, Monk felt himself begin to smile.
“Okay, assholes,” he said quietly. “Now we’re even.”
CHAPTER 55
The telephone on President Wainwright’s desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver.
“Mr. President, you have Premiere Xiao on the line. Your translator is patched in and standing by.”
“Thank you, Margie,” the president said. “Put me through.”
There was a brief silence, and then the light on the phone blinked from amber to green.
The president resisted the urge to clear his throat. He’d been mentally rehearsing this call for an hour, and he still hadn’t figured out how to say what needed to be said.
Everything was riding on this call. If it went well, maybe he could get China and India to back away from each other before this thing escalated out of control. If it didn’t go well…
He heard Xiao’s ancient voice, speaking in Mandarin. A couple of seconds later, the State Department translator repeated the Chinese leader’s words in English. “Good morning, President Wainright. I assume you are calling to apologize for the attack on our aircraft carrier.”
The president felt an instant surge of annoyance. They were three seconds into the call, and already the accusations were starting to come out. At least a half dozen responses popped into his head, none of which would help to calm the waters. He needed something firm, but not accusatory.
“The loss of the Liaoning was unfortunate,” he said. “And so was the attack on the USS Midway, which — you may recall — occurred two days before the incident with the Liaoning.”
Another pause before the State Department translator relayed Xiao’s words. “We made no move against your USS Midway until after you destroyed a satellite that was the sovereign property of the People’s Republic.”
The president’s annoyance ratcheted up another notch. So much for his hopes of a calm diplomatic dialogue. Fine. If Xiao wanted to play tit-for-tat, he’d discover that Dalton Wainright’s years in the Senate had given him certain skills in the shame-and-blame game. And then, maybe after they had bludgeoned each other senseless with blunt rhetoric for a while, they might actually get around to having a productive discussion.
“Premiere Xiao,” he said, “your people are apparently not giving you accurate information. I did not authorize the downing of your satellite until two days after your warplanes carried out an unprovoked attack against a pair of American aircraft on defensive patrol. Your planes shot first, killing one of our pilots, and destroying an F/A-18 jet. American naval forces in the region had done nothing to justify such an act of aggression.”
“You sided with our enemies—”
“We did not side with your enemies,” the president snapped. “I ordered USS Midway into the Bay of Bengal as a stabilizing force. I had hoped that our ships and aircraft could serve as a buffer between Chinese and Indian forces in the region. To give both of your countries a chance to cool off, and seek more peaceful solutions.”
The Premier’s translated words came a few seconds later. “Mr. President, I find it strange that you speak of peace. You have just destroyed every ship and aircraft in the Liaoning battle group. You did not damage our ships and planes. You eradicated them. You have struck directly at my country’s vital strategic assets. You have dealt a serious blow to China’s international military deterrence. Now, you wish to cast yourself as a peacemaker?”
Dalton felt his fingers tighten on the telephone receiver. He struggled to keep his voice even. “How this happened is no longer important,” he said. “What matters now, is what we do next. Do we continue down the road that we’re on? Or do we work together to find a solution to this crisis?”
“You cannot have it both ways,” Xiao said through the translator. “Your country’s John Adams spoke of holding the sword in one hand, and the olive branch in the other. But we both know, President Wainright, that you are no John Adams. And if we are to speak frankly, you are not even his lesser son, John Quincy Adams.”
The words did not just sting. They burned like acid. Because they were true.
If they had come from a different man, they might not have wounded so deeply. Coming from some middleweight bureaucrat, Dalton could have written them off as ill-spirited bluster. But Xiao Qishan was not a middleweight bureaucrat. He was old now, and in the waning days of his political career, but what an extraordinary career it had been.
Xiao had done more to drag China into the twenty-first century than any other man, living or dead. He had earned his place in history. He would be remembered as a great leader. A forward-thinking man of action and results.
Dalton Wainright had no illusions about his own place in history. He was not a great leader. In the future, when he was remembered at all, he would appear as a footnote to the careers of greater men. He knew that, and the knowledge was not pleasant.
Still, he struggled to keep the anger and hurt out of his voice. “I am no John Adams,” he said into the phone. “As you have so graciously pointed out, I am not even John Quincy Adams. I am a small man, sitting in a chair that is too large for me. But make no mistake, Premier Xiao, I am sitting in this chair. I don’t pretend to lead my country with wisdom and greatness, but I do lead it.”
His fingers were painfully tight around the handset of the phone. “For all of my shortcomings, I intend to discharge my duties. I will not accept threats to the security of my country. And I will not accept unprovoked attacks against allies of the United States of America.”
The translation of Premiere Xiao’s response came a few seconds later. “Are you suggesting that China is not an ally of the United States?”
“That is entirely up to you,” the president said. “But if you want to be treated as our ally, it’s about time that you begin to act like our ally.”
There was a long delay before Xiao’s words came back through the translator. “Is that the sound of your saber rattling, Mr. President? What are you suggesting? Are you hoping to intimidate me with veiled hints?”