“Mr. President.” Admiral Jones spoke up.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“It’s a big world out there, sir. But first, we look to the sea lanes where oil is transported. We narrow that down even more, and I think we must watch strategic choke points where oil is transported.”
“You mean like the Strait of Malacca?”
“There are eight strategic naval choke points around the world, including Malacca. Right now I mean the Strait of Hormuz, Bab-el-Mandeb, the Suez Canal, the Bosporus, Gibraltar, Cape Horn, and the Cape of Good Hope. Tankers pass through all these choke points and are vulnerable to attack. I think we can take the Malacca Strait off the list as a potential attack area for a while.”
“Why is that, Admiral Jones? We just got hit there.”
“Sir”-the admiral wiped his hand across his forehead-“I regret to inform you that as of this morning, approximately zero-four-hundred Eastern Time, the Malacca Strait has been closed to shipping because of the thick oil slick at Singapore. The whole Singapore Strait is covered from Singapore to Indonesia. There won’t be any tanker traffic going that way for a while.”
“Darn it!” The president slammed his fist on the table again. “Then what do we guard?”
“Sir, the traffic that cut through the Malacca Strait we now believe will sail southeast across the Indian Ocean, and then cut through the seas south of Indonesia and north of Australia. In fact, we’ve already seen tankers beginning to move along this route. We’ve prepared a visual to demonstrate this new sea route for you, sir.”
“Very well, let’s see it,” the president said.
“Commander Murray?” Admiral Jones nodded to Lieutenant Commander Beth Murray. Instantly, the graphic appeared on the monitor for all to see.
“Here’s the graphic, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said. “You can see the sea routes running to the southwest of Jakarta. Then, approximately four hundred miles due south of Jakarta, they are breaking due east, where they sail into the Timor Sea, then cut to the northeast through the Arafura Sea, then northwest, hugging the coast of the island of New Guinea, then sailing east of Halmahera, running through the Raja Ampat Islands, and finally heading north toward the Philippines.”
The president donned a pair of black, plastic-rimmed reading glasses and studied the sea routes. “Boy, they’re going around their elbow to get to their thumb.”
“Yes, they are, Mr. President.”
“What’s our naval presence in the area?”
“Right now,” the admiral continued, “we have four Los Angeles-class attack submarines and three Aegis-class cruisers patrolling roughly along this line from the south of Jakarta to the Timor Sea.
“USS Abraham Lincoln is steaming east from Diego Garcia. I recommend moving the Lincoln battle group along this line so that we can get our subs and cruisers up into these sea lanes around Irian Jaya and the Halmahera Sea.
“We also have one Los Angeles-class and two Virginia-class attack subs, along with three Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigates patrolling in the south Philippine Sea. These ships can be quickly deployed into the Halmahera Sea and can patrol this area off Irian Jaya. The Aegis-class cruiser USS Port Royal is steaming south of Indonesia and is available for escort duty if necessary.
“Our biggest stick in the area, USS Ronald Reagan, has just left port at Perth and is steaming north in the IO along the west coast of Australia toward Indonesia. Reagan is our closest carrier at the moment. The Gipper’s jets will be within striking distance of these sea lanes in just a few short hours, Mr. President, and the Lincoln won’t be far behind.”
The president folded his reading glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. Every American president, in every international crisis since World War II, had instinctively asked this question: “Where are the carriers?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs had just answered it even before it was specifically asked. The president appeared to take comfort at the news that two of America’s mightiest warships, both named after the two greatest Republican presidents in history, were in the area.
“Okay. I’m ordering the Reagan and Lincoln task forces to the area. Get our forces deployed into these sea lanes. Now.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. President,” Admiral Jones said.
“Also,” the president continued, “we’re proceeding on the assumption that an attack will occur against a tanker in the region. Just to be safe, I want to cover some of these other choke points where we have tanker traffic. So I’m ordering beefed-up naval presence in the following regions.” The president held up his hands and began ticking off a list of the choke points. “The Strait of Hormuz, the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, the entrance to the Suez Canal, the Gulf of Oman, the Persian Gulf, Gibraltar, and the Sea of Marmara leading to the Bosporus.”
Admiral Jones took notes and winced as the president continued.
The president looked over at Admiral Jones. “I gather that you have some sort of problem with this, Admiral?”
“No, sir, Mr. President. It’s just that rapid deployment of beefed-up naval forces to all these areas all at once will stretch the navy and make us thin in other areas, sir.”
The president exhaled. “I was afraid you might say that.” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Secretary Lopez.”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense replied.
“I want you to order the secretary of the navy to prepare an order for my signature, which I may or may not sign, which would immediately call up all naval reserve forces.” He held up one finger. “Check that. Give me three options in the order. Option one, to call up one-third of all naval reserve forces. Option two, to call up two-thirds. Option three, to mobilize the entire naval reserve.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also”-he was looking at SECDEF-“if these clowns, whoever they are, are going to start hitting oil tankers, we’re going to need more warships to deter threats around the globe.
“So I want to revive President Reagan’s plan for a six-hundred-ship navy, and I want you to instruct the navy to bring me several workable plans from which I can select and present to the Congress. Place an emphasis on the geostrategic objective of protecting vital sea lanes and littoral regions. I want these plans on my desk within thirty days.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Very well. Let’s reset to meet again at zero-eight-hundred tomorrow morning, unless you hear from me. Let’s pray that Lieutenant Molster’s assessment is wrong. You are dismissed.”
The president rose, prompting the members of the NSC to rise and stand in their places as he stepped out of the room.
“Good job, Lieutenant,” Admiral Jones said. “Now let’s get back over to the building and pray that you are wrong.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Brownsville, Texas
8:30 a.m.
The sun had been blazing for an hour over the Gulf of Mexico when Emanuel Gonzales turned his beat-up, red Toyota Celica left off Boca Chica Boulevard into the parking lot of the Old Port Isabel Warehouse.
He had slipped across the border into Brownsville with his wife, his kids, and his three cousins six years ago. He’d found work at the warehouse and had been promoted to manager of the place six months later. No one asked about a green card or anything else. Not even a Social Security number was required, since the owner said that he would be paid as an “independent contractor.”
Last week he’d gotten a pay raise of an extra five bucks an hour, which was nice considering that it cost a lot to support three kids, a wife, and three cousins. Their eleven-hundred-square-foot house ran seven hundred bucks a month. And although his cousins Julio and Juan-Carlos were working construction to help out with the bills, things were still tight. So Emanuel was grateful for the raise.